Empty Spaces
by Westel
Summary: The first 5-yr mission over, Nogura seeks to manipulate Kirk into a pseudo-diplomatic job, banking on his record to draw new additions to the Federation. But Kirk has other ideas - darker and more dangerous.
1. Prologue

Empty Spaces

By Westel

_No infringement upon the rights of Gene Roddenberry, his estate(s), or Paramount is intended. I have borrowed these beloved characters for a little while, but they are sadly not my own. It is out of love only that this story has been written, and not for monetary gain whatsoever. – W_

_ooOOoo_

Introduction

I suppose every author has a reason for writing a story, admittedly or not. I have always admired the friendship shared among Spock, Kirk and McCoy and the special rapport they enjoyed over the years of the original mission. Therefore I was dismayed at the change I saw in Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Where had the closeness gone? Why had Spock lost so much ground in accepting himself? What were the circumstances of McCoy's resignation from Starfleet?

I'm sure many authors have dealt with these questions, but in my limited reading I have failed to come across their explanations. Therefore I took upon myself to examine the three friendships under a microscope of tremendous testing and hardship. I wanted to show that the fabric of the relationships would not wear, but could be altered – stretched as it were.

One other subject I wanted to broach was a tendency, among some excellent writers, to exclude McCoy from the "close" relationship that Kirk and Spock shared via the mind link. Until I meet a Vulcan personally, I am not in a position to judge this as a physiological fact. However, I am of the strong opinion that psionic abilities or not, friendships are based upon much more than the efficiency of communication. This story, in measure, satisfies me to that end. I hope in its telling that it satisfies the readers, as well.

_This novelette was published originally in 1994 by Peg Kennedy and Bill Hupe. The work is entirely my own, published under my real name, however, which I do not care to disclose via fanfictiondotcom. If you've run across this 14-year-old tome, give me a yell! - W_

Prologue

"_What a thing friendship is, world without end!"_

A Death in the Desert

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

_Another five-year mission_. The words echoed hollowly in his memory as Kirk navigated the twisted, ancient forest path which wound for miles back into the Virginia wilderness. He had been hiking steadily for hours that afternoon, trying to take his mind off things – things like Starfleet's recent assignment offer. Naturally, he could turn I down, but he'd been given precious little time to even think about it. Damn Nogura's abruptness, anyway! The _Enterprise_ hadn't been in dry-dock four days before the admiral had approached him.

Jim knew Nogura well enough to see through his scheme. He had always had big plans for Kirk, 'the youngest captain in the fleet.' Of course, that wasn't true anymore. Captain Jarrefs was the current holder of that title – 33 years old, recently promoted and given the refitted _Hood_. Kirk realized, wryly, that this would be the first of many such titles or records, or whatever names people chose to give them, which would fall to others during the course of time.

He stumbled over a rock hidden beneath last year's leaves, grabbing a sapling to keep from falling. His eyes, downcast, had not seen the purple clouds on the horizon darkening to black, but the sudden bursts of hot wind tearing at the foliage jerked him from his reverie. Heavy drops of a midsummer storm pattered around him, making tiny explosions in the dust at his feet. A blue firebrand seared the sky above and touched a distant mountain. Kirk waited, counting slowly, until the thunderclap burst forth, bouncing in fading echoes from ridge to ridge. _A mile away_, he thought, woodenly.

Another bolt of lightning slashed diagonally across the horizon, but he hardly reached the count of 'two' before the thunder exploded, sounding remarkably like a photon battery. The rain, falling in earnest now, brought up smells of parched earth and dust-laden undergrowth, quickly followed by a sweet, moist scent of herbs and grasses. It penetrated his unprotected clothing, cooling his perspiring flesh, and he shivered, unsure of whether to go on or postpone ascent until the following day. The memory of that last conversation with Nogura troubled, wearied him.

The admiral's tactics were plain enough. Kirk, returning triumphantly from a successful five-year mission, would be elevated to the more diplomatic ranks of Starfleet, rubbing elbows with Federation ambassadors, used to augment the somewhat mundane politics of a semi-military organization, and beef up diplomatic relations between the Federation and those new worlds who were familiar with its representative – James Kirk. The plan had been laid out beautifully: diplomatic ties, status, wealth, less travel (at least less hazardous travel), a secure future. There was only one problem with this plan – a former starship captain who wasn't particularly excited about a desk job. Given any title, any wage, any prestige – to Kirk it was still a desk job.

But Nogura was ready for Kirk's reaction. After all, he hadn't attained his rank by playing cribbage for twenty years. He knew that Jim, weary from the finished mission, would be susceptible to persuasion if given certain less attractive alternatives. Therefore he offered Kirk two other options: retain his command of the _Enterprise_ for another five-year mission, or go undercover on a clandestine operation. Given these options alone, Nogura had no doubt Jim would have chosen the first, being who and what he was. But it was then that Nogura informed Kirk that whatever mission he decided to take, Spock would not be with him. The Vulcan's orders were already outlined: assume the captaincy of the _Enterprise_ on her second mission (should Kirk refuse the post), or take assignment as first officer aboard he new _Intrepid_. Either way, Kirk had lost Spock.

Nogura gave Jim ten weeks, the time the _Enterprise_ would be in dry-dock, to make up his mind.

Jim looked ahead to the darkened path which lay before him, realizing he could go no farther that day. Resignedly, he turned back to camp, cursing himself for neglecting to bring a light. The rain came in sheets now, turning the path into a small river, and the moisture penetrating his boots promised uncomfortable walking the next day. Water streamed into his eyes as he navigated by frequent shafts of lightning, hoping that one of them wouldn't choose him as a target.

Finally, he saw the tent just ahead in the storm's ragged illumination, and ran toward it. Once inside, he pulled off his wet boots and set them near the portable heater, its warmth welcome in the rain-washed chill. For awhile he was preoccupied with homely duties – getting into dry clothes, making coffee. But as he settled in for the night, the coffee mug warming his hands and the heater purring gently in the background, he found he could no longer ignore Nogura's manipulations.

Jim lay on one side, propped on an elbow, listening to the dying wind and the last raindrops spattering on the tent above him. _Back on the _Enterprise_ – out there: more worlds, more unknowns_ – that was what he had trained all his adult life for; that was what his first and most desired choice would be. But without Spock. . . His heart twisted strangely and he gripped the mug until the knuckles turned white. Not just Spock, either. McCoy was far too valuable a medical officer to be scuttlebutted of somewhere. He'd be reassigned to another starship or high-ranking medical facility, as far away and out of reach as Spock – Nogura would see to that. But what were the other alternatives? Jim knew he would hate the stale diplomacy of a Starfleet operations position. No, that was definitely _not_ an option he would choose, under any circumstances.

_So where does that leave me?_

He set down the cooling coffee and shrugged kinks out of his shoulders, realizing he had very little choice, after all. If he took this undercover assignment, however, he may still have time to decide about assuming command of the _Enterprise_. Perhaps a change would be good and, if he couldn't have his two closest friends by his side, it would be best to go away, and to go alone. . .

His sigh was almost sorrowful as he turned off the lamp and settled into the sleeping bag. Responsibilities and duties had a way of manipulating people, even the closest of friends, often separating them – sometimes forever.

Kirk felt his life, so intermeshed with Spock, McCoy and the crew of the _Enterprise_, fade into history as certainly as the receding storm, its fury spent and its brilliant display only a dying memory in the night.


	2. Chapter 1

Empty Spaces – Chapter One

Suzerain Gamel leaned back into the soft cushions of the richly embroidered hamrad and drew slowly on an Orion water pipe, its aromatic fumes adding their mildly narcotic mystery to those of the other feudal lords. He was careful not to inhale to much too quickly; the slightly glazed visage of his companions, fief-lords of his dominion, was ample proof of the power of the Orion drug-weed. He would bide his time, drawing the smoke into his mouth without inhaling it, until they had completely succumbed and their lips loosened.

A slight movement caught his eye in the far shadows of the room; no need to be concerned, it was only his aide bringing refreshments – laced with ingredients to further induce uninhibited discussion. He smiled benignly upon his fellow fief-lords, knowing full well that any one of them would confiscate his holdings without notice if they thought they had grounds to do so. And indeed his intentions, should they discover them, would certainly be cause for them to expel him from the suzerainty, exile him from Orion and perhaps deprive him of his life. But circumstances were desperate. The _Meltahd_, governing body of Orion, had called in certain suzerains to a secret meeting to impart grave news: the trading fields in an outlying sector had been tampered with – business as usual had ceased, and the commanders and slave camp overseers had become incommunicative – subspace communication had simply dried up.

Rumor had it that there had been alien interference, unprecedented and intolerable in Orion history. The bait: something terrible, but apparently irresistible and inescapable. What it was exactly had yet to be discovered. Two covert attempts had been made to contact Orion representatives in the affected area. Result: two disappeared ships, all aboard supposedly lost among a thickening fog of the unknown. Infiltrators upon a Rigelian science ship had reported some evidence of an alien influence, but were likewise lost when that ship also was mysteriously destroyed. The _Meltahd's_ concern seemed well-founded, as the Orions heretofore had always had free run of the known galaxy, enjoying the privileges of a free-wheeling barter-trade society. Treaties were unnecessary, borders and taboos unknown (except with the Federation). Of further and more pressing concern was the suspicion that a clandestine group of fief-lords, traitorously independent of their suzerains, were somehow in league with this alien. Orion against Orion was unthinkable; that it was nevertheless happening was intolerable. No one had ever disturbed the complicated, yet stable economy of the Orion people like this before – except the Federation.

Gamel sighed, his sequiglottis sending a small spume of stale smoke into the room. The United Federation of Planets. How many times had they interfered with Orion business, tampered with trade routes, meddled in barter agreements in civi-ports, inhibiting or even preventing new arrangements with developing planets? Enough times to make the word "Federation" a foul taste in an Orion's mouth. Enough to make a self-respecting Orion stay as far away from Federation ships, bases, and citizens as possible.

A slow smile stretched Gamel's thin lips to an indiscernible line. Perhaps there was _some_ contact. But at least his people made sure that if there were any dealings with the Federation, they were kept well-hidden. Masters of disguise, Orions could appear as virtually any hominid race in the galaxy. _Ik-rhaz Tofir_ – Profit First – wasn't that the unofficial motto of his planet? As long as one wasn't caught, one had the right to do anything to capitalize on a situation.

In this case, he wished to maintain his present position, Fief-lord of Gamel-draz, fiefdom of his father and grandfather, future home of his sons and their sons, and Suzerain over the other nine fief-lords. To disobey the directives of the _Meltahd_ meant immediate banishment; to fall under the wrath of the Draz Council for interfering in the other fief-lords' private trade affairs would be worse. But he knew what he must do, and determined to do it well, as a true son of an Orion. This evening, disguised as an Andorian (an easy transformation with few adjustments and common disguise for Orions), he would go as emissary to a neutral planet and contact the Federation governing body representative there. The Orion government had authorized him to seek the help of the UFP's great interstellar force – their illustrious Starfleet. But first he must pretend allegiance with these rebels he once called allies, these sellers of themselves to an alien influence, so that he obtain the evidence he needed.

Cradling his pipe in his hands, he leaned forward to face the council. "So, my friends, tell me about this Newcomer you are so interested in."

**--**

McCoy took a deep breath and tried to squelch the apprehension that ate at him. This was Spock's first night back and he was going to enjoy it or die trying. He peered over the Vulcan's shoulder, frowning suspiciously. "Spock, tell me again about those ingredients. I want to be sure there isn't anything in that soup which could bring on a belch attack or anything. . ."

Spock concentrated on stirring the broth, ignoring the doctor's doubtful remarks and refusing to be bothered by the nearness of the human. "Talmret stew is completely edible by human standards, Doctor. My mother served it frequently when these particular vegetables were in season, and preserved it for later rehydration, as well."

"Oh?" McCoy's curiosity was piqued. He moved around from behind the Vulcan and straddled a high stool, crossing his arms over the backrest. "Did she do that for her sake, Spock, or yours? Is this stuff as tantalizing to you as, say, plomik soup?"

Spock started to answer, then realized that McCoy had successfully maneuvered him into admitting, either way, that plomik soup was a definite culinary weakness of his. He deigned to ignore the question. "She preserved it because of its rater seasonal availability, as I have already explained to you, and because of its. . ." He hesitated. ". . .homeopathic medicinal qualities."

A tiny smile tried to squirm its way across McCoy's features. He fought it down with partial success and endeavored to appear impartially interested. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that science. Homeopathic qualities_ – _would you please explain that?"

"It is well known among the matriarchs of Vulcan that during the course of ou history talmret stew has been of help when an individual is suffering from v'tor fever or Sponn's effusion. . ."

"Sponn's effusion?" McCoy propped his chin on one hand, the smile getting the better of him now.

Spock avoided the human's eyes and stirred the broth with greater dispatch. "Yes, a rather uncomfortable skin rash, similar to your Terran rubella or Andorian philatrah. . ." He stopped, his expression one of perturbed aloofness, as McCoy's smile turned into a wide grin.

"Spock, you're telling me Amanda gave you talmret stew when you had a case of the measles."

Spock pursed his lips, sighing audibly. "I'm telling you my mother saw inherent qualities in the stew; that is all." He removed the pan from the cooking unit and proceeded to pour its contents into two bowls. McCoy's smile faded as he moved over to the table, bringing a bottle out of the folds of his off-duty tunic.

"To augment our dinner, and don't worry," he added, noting Spock's look, "it's Altair water."

"You, Doctor? This is highly uncharacteristic of you." Spock held his glass for McCoy to pour.

"Just put it down to not wanting to undo all the benefits of this homeopathic medicine, okay?" Bones poured his own glass and tasted it, his thoughts suddenly far away. He realized Spock was looking at him put on his brightest smile, picking up his spoon. "Let's try this out; we'll see if you can cook as well as Amanda. . ."

Spock watched McCoy eat, knowing something was not right with his friend. He had been too eager to get along this evening, and what banter there had been was forced. The Vulcan did not have the same empathic/telepathic rapport with McCoy that he enjoyed with the captain, but he still could sense the strongly felt emotions which ran deep in the physician. Something was bothering the man.

"Doctor, if you have finished your meal, I have endeavored to brew a hot beverage you may find to your liking." Spock moved into the other room; McCoy found he had no choice but to follow him and left the kitchen to find the first officer puttering with an antique coffee-maker. He poured a cup for McCoy and brought his own cup of tea with him, sitting directly across from the physician. McCoy sniffed he brew suspiciously, looked up in surprise, and cautiously sipped the scalding hot beverage. He looked over the rim of his cup, groaned in ecstasy, and took a big gulp. It burned his tongue but he didn't care.

"Louisiana coffee – this is _Louisiana_ coffee, the real thing! How did you know this was my favorite?"

"Serving on a starship forces individuals, even those of different species, to observe the habits and predilections of those around them. After almost five years of such observations, it only follows that. . ."

Spock stopped, taken aback by the doctor's swimming blue eyes. He could handle McCoy's temper and sarcasm easily enough, indeed he thrived on them. But tears. . .

"Spock, I – don't know what to say."

Spock, sensing the doctor was not in a position to banter, set his cup down and reached across the short distance between them to lay a slender hand on McCoy's arm. The man's hands began to shake and he half-dropped his cup onto the table, spilling coffee on himself. He stared blankly at his scalded hands, the hot drink dripping slowly from his fingers.

**--**

Jim Kirk packed his tent and other gear and started back down the mountain without taking time to hike the last few miles to the summit. Now that his mind was made up, he felt a need, almost an urgency, to be about his business. Besides, the hike had lost its lure. Out here in the wilderness he would normally have lost himself in the natural surroundings, away from communicators, transporters, and shuttles. But his own thoughts and concerns nagged at him like the summer mosquitoes here, and he could not get away from them.

Several hours later, as he neared the public comlink, he glanced back once at the mountain ranges behind him. They were smaller than the American Rockies, but far older, their gentle slopes speaking of millennia of weathering. Maybe, one day, he would come back to bury himself in their hidden mysteries. For now, however, the Blue Ridge would have to wait. He threw down his pack and contacted Starfleet, wiggling his sore feet in the rain-stiffened shoes. A brief conversation ensued, then he picked up his pack and walked to a nearby beam pad where he waited momentarily before sparkling out of existence.

**--**

Spock handed a towel to McCoy, who wiped his hands in silence. He did not know exactly what to say or do for the human. If McCoy had been taken ill or injured, he would not have thought twice about ministering aid. Many such times he had done just that, both for McCoy and the captain. But this was different. Such strong emotions were difficult to shield from initially, and humans tended to react illogically to shielding. It was as if they took comfort from the knowledge that the other person was not only sensing their pain, but sharing it.

Occasionally he had been allowed to see some of the deeper feelings of his captain and, due to the undemanding nature of his commanding officer and friend, was able to open a small crack in that stoic Vulcan façade for Kirk's eyes only. McCoy saw it occasionally, but it was accidental. Only for Kirk had Spock felt he could let down his defenses freely.

McCoy had known this. The bantering developed between them over the years had proven this out time after time. The doctor _cared_ about Spock, but he had manufactured a uniquely illogical way of showing it. Nevertheless, Spock took no less comfort from it tan he did from Jim Kirk's frank friendliness. The friendship was what it was, and he would not want it changed in any way.

But now McCoy was exhibiting an unbridled emotion he would never have allowed himself under normal circumstances. Normally, if upset about something, McCoy became more crusty, irascible. The man had never overtly shown tears in front of the first officer – until now.

Spock frowned. New experiences demanded new responses sometimes. He left his seat and sat on the sofa next to McCoy, debating his next move. The threat of tears had disappeared by now, McCoy having wiped his eyes hastily on his sleeve. He did not lift his eyes.

"Doctor."

McCoy didn't move.

"Leonard. . ." Spock placed his hand on the physician's slim shoulder, shields carefully lowered.

McCoy, startled by his touch, looked up into Spock's face with stricken eyes. Though the fingers resting lightly on his shoulder was not a mind meld, Bones could still sense the Vulcan's thoughts hovering quite near his own. Somehow, it was just what he needed. The mind meld itself, thought he had experienced it more than once, was distasteful to him – almost frightening. But this – this was subtly, gently different, revealing a depth of compassion, caring – emotions." And boy, could he identify with that. . .

"Spock, I've been having such terrible dreams.

"About Jim."


	3. Chapter 2

Empty Spaces

_I am sorry for the long delay in getting out this next chapter. Let's just say that life happens. Hope it was worth the wait. - Westel_

ooOOoo

Empty Spaces

Chapter Two

Jim Kirk was no longer Jim Kirk. He bore the darkening shadow of a beard, having purposely cut back on beard growth inhibitors, and wore misshapen space-mercantile gear, his hair uncombed and quickly growing into a longer, more disheveled style. The five weeks he spent in the mountains had done him good, tanning and toughening him in ways shipboard exercise could never do. He was darker, leaner than he had been in years.

His thoughts were dark, too, and single-minded, which lent an air of aloofness, coldness, to his usually boyish features. They looked back at him from the port window as he restlessly awaited the landing of his shuttle, an event yet two hours off, at the Beta Gamma II colony. From there he was on his own. There were contacts he would have to make, a ship to secure – each of which carried the overshadowing possibility of discovery. Then there was the flight into unsecured territory, under pretense of trade, to determine just what the Orions were up to.

He blinked. For a moment he had been back on the _Enterprise_, wounded, questioning the imposter Andorian as the unknown invader attacked his ship and the entire contingent of ambassadors bound for Babel. The Orion ship had destroyed itself before they could beam anyone aboard. . .

No one in Starfleet or the Federation could be certain when they were dealing with Orions, who were experts in subterfuge. In just a few days, he might find himself talking to one and totally unaware – just as he had talked to the imposter Andorian only hours before he had felt the knife in his back.

Kirk shook his head, forcing the memory away, concentrating on his instructions. He smiled grimly. Nogura had been furious when Kirk – alias Jonn Faal – announced his intention to take the undercover assignment. The ensuing argument had been a long one, both of them off the record and nose-to-nose more than once. But to his credit, the admiral was a man of his word and had no choice but to let Kirk go. Jim had never heard him curse that vehemently in all the years he'd known him, however. Probably because Nogura suspected he was sending his finest starship commander into a hell with no back door, where there was no contact with the outside, and where Starfleet and the Federation would claim no knowledge of a space merchant called Faal. Kirk's last words to the admiral had been to claim command of the _Enterprise_ when he returned. Nogura had gruffly agreed, promising to postpone the ship's refit and to send her on short missions until Kirk's return. _If_ he returned. He had until the _Enterprise_ was recalled in the fall, and the summer promised to pass quickly. His plans a muddled mess, Nogura watched a changed man leave his office, perhaps for the last time.

Now, as Kirk – no, he must remember who he was. As he, Jonn Faal, made his way outside the officially mapped Federation space, all knowledge of James T. Kirk, the captaincy, the _Enterprise_, and everything else, must be completely suppressed. He went over and over the information he had compiled about his new identity, having carefully entered the data in Terran civilian computer files. He had kept it scanty, giving anyone who perused the files the concept of an illusive, hard-to-find man. The less 'background' a potential enemy had on him, the less they could try to wrench out of him should he be caught – a very real possibility.

Jonn closed his eyes, concentrating on the mind techniques Spock had taught him after the Organia incident. There had not been as much time to prepare as he would have liked, and it worried him. The mind-sifter had been a very near thing; he knew, had he been subjected to it, that he could not have resisted the way Spock had, or even survived.

He drew his breath in sharply, re-experiencing the momentary quail of fear when he thought he would have to sit in that chair after Spock. He shuddered with the memory before steeling himself against it. If he had anything to do with it, by God, he would not be that vulnerable again, thanks to his first officer.

Although he didn't have the structured, regimented logic Spock did, nor the telepathic ability, his Vulcan friend was still able, through a series of mind melds and subsequent prescribed mental exercises, to help the captain achieve a certain subliminal level of conscious inhibition – hopefully enough to give the impression of ignorance if probed. It just might be enough to make the Orions, or whoever they were, think he knew nothing of value. It could mean a less painful death, or at least less prolonged. He frowned, knowing what Spock would have to say about the matter had he known to what harder test he was about to put this untried mind discipline. A small smile followed on the heels of the frown, accompanying his fond thoughts of the thorny comments he knew his physician would make on the subject. The smile faded as he wondered if he would ever see either of his friends again.

Jonn's thoughts were brought back to the present as, less than seventy-two hours after coming down the mountainside, he found himself parsecs away from Federation space on the Beta Gamma II colony.

**--**

"What kinds of dreams, Doctor?" Spock handed McCoy another cup of hot coffee and sat across from him, his eyes probing.

Leonard leaned back into the comfortable cushions of the sofa and glanced around the room. Jim's antiques and books were everywhere. Even though they had made planet-fall less than two months ago, the captain had quickly moved all his belongings into this apartment high above the bay. Said he wanted a sense of permanency. But then what had he done? Took off for the mountains on the east coast – said he wanted to be alone. Then he had the unmitigated cheek to offer the place to him and Spock for as long as they liked.

"You know, it's funny. I remember Jim coming to me during the mission, troubled by insomnia, headaches – and sometimes dreams. Usually they were stress-induced." McCoy leaned forward intently, elbows on knees. "But Spock, sometimes – sometimes they were _more_ than dreams. Jim trusted his instincts – and so did I. That's why now. . ." The words died on his lips and he looked distractedly at the fire.

Spock's eyes narrowed. "The dreams?"

The physician set down his cup, found he could not meet the Vulcan's gaze, and turned his eyes once again to the fire.

"They started just after planet-fall," he began, "soon after Jim first found his apartment and started moving everything off the _Enterprise_. He was too willing to make the change, too eager to be off the ship – I've never seen him relish being away from command for more than a few days – but this time he acted as if he never wanted to see another starship again!"

"You did not perceive this as a human tendency to – vacation? Could it have been a way of letting off built-up tensions you humans have a way of storing up?"

"No, Spock, not this time, although that is a human tendency. I can't explain it, exactly. I wish you had been here those first few days. . ." McCoy stopped himself, not wanting to inflict any supposed guilt on the Vulcan. Spock could not have known what the captain would do. "I'm sorry. How often do you get a chance to visit a new starship – especially one manned entirely by Vulcans?"

Indeed, not very often. Nogura had informed Spock that he was up for the captaincy of the _Enterprise_ should Kirk refuse the second mission, or the position of first officer aboard the _Intrepid_ should Kirk resume command. The news had shocked Spock far beyond what he was capable of acknowledging even to himself – that he would not be serving alongside his captain during the next tour of duty – and he had beamed aboard the _Intrepid_ with all haste. To look her over, he had stalwartly told himself. Looking back now, he realized it was because he needed to be among totally logical beings for a few weeks, where he would be unhampered in identifying and controlling his own uprooted emotions. But meanwhile, McCoy had been alone, in Jim's empty apartment, haunted by dreams.

"Did these dreams begin after Jim left?"

"Yes. I don't remember dreaming often, Spock, although you know humans dream nightly. And when I do remember they're silly, disjointed little things I usually get a chuckle over at the breakfast table. But these – these were so _real_! Each time the dream would be the same. It was as if I had a subspace channel open to some far away place – almost like a news broadcast, or a documentary." McCoy licked his lips nervously. "Each time I dreamed, I'd see Jim in this large compound – like a military camp of some kind. He was working at something – I couldn't see exactly – and this person was standing over him, _beating_ him with. . .with a stick or something – I don't know!" The doctor hesitated, his jaw clenched. "You must think I'm crazy."

"Did the captain fight back?" Spock concentrated very hard on getting the facts, finding it difficult not to envision the scene as McCoy so vividly described it.

"No, and that's part of the horror of it. He just ducked his head and took the blows, and when they stopped, he went back to work. He was bleeding – he was hurt, and I couldn't do a damn thing for him. I. . ." The doctor's eyes widened, locked on the vision.

Spock watched the man closely, his face showing open concern. McCoy never saw it, however; he was focused on the memory of the repeating nightmare. "Is there more, Doctor?"

"Yeah, I. . ." McCoy swallowed: his own voice sounded strange to him. "He finished his work and stumbled over to a place near some boxes or crates. Looked like it was where he slept. There were some others there, too. They all looked like hell." McCoy's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Then I remember it was night. Jim got up and wandered out into the open area, looking up at the stars. He was trying to keep his feet. Spock, he was too thin. And then. . ." McCoy began to tremble violently. Alarmed, Spock grabbed his arms and held him firmly.

"What? What did you see?"

"The guard who had beaten him earlier. He had some kind of influence over the captain – it was uncanny the way Jim responded to him. I've seen him scared, yes – but never _terrified_. Then this guard took him into a small building of some kind. The door was closed and. . ." McCoy's voice broke. "There was this terrible screaming, Spock. It just went on and on. . ."

It took some seconds for Spock, who was lost in the horrible vision he picked up from the physical contact with McCoy, to realize his friend had passed out in his arms.

**--**

"Seventy-eight hundred credits, and not a penny less."

"That's highway robbery, and you know it! I'd bet it hasn't seen a hydrospanner in a decade. Haven't you heard of preventive maintenance on this rock?"

"No, Faal, and as far as anyone is concerned on this 'rock', what you do with your ship is _your_ business – do I make myself perfectly clear?" The Andorian placed his blue nose inches away from Jonn's the antennae almost flattened against his skull. Jonn knew this was a sign to back off or soon be enjoined in an Andorian brawl. And, since one did not escape from Andorian brawls unscathed, Jonn held up his hands and took a step back.

"My apologies. But I still can't give you more than sixty-six hundred. I've got to buy a fuel pack!" He flashed a charming grin, reminiscent of a man he knew once, but had long since forgotten.

The Andorian considered, sizing up his customer. He had cash clientele all the time – in fact, he wouldn't deal with any other kind. Out here on BGII you never knew who would be stopping by, or for what reasons – and you didn't want to know. Hence the cash – no records, no way of remembering – you tended to live longer that way. "All right, but you've got to buy the pack from me."

For a moment, Jonn felt lost. He knew how much dilithium it took to power a starship for 1,000 parsecs, but a single-man ship with a warp one engine. . . He smiled again, jingling the credits in his pocket. "That leaves me twelve hundred credits, dealer. What can you do for me?"

"A three-parsec power pack, with emergency power for impulse engine, if you need it. Either way, don't plan on going farther than one point eight parsecs unless you're making it a one-way trip."

"Done. Here's half. I'll be back in an hour to give you the rest. Have it powered up and ready to go. Hopefully I won't have to kick-start it." Jonn slapped the credits into the Andorian's hand, wondering briefly if this one had also undergone a physical alteration to appear to be someone else.

_One point eight parsecs._ Well, if the ship didn't blow up on him it would get him where he wanted to go. An asteroid belt 1.473 parsecs distant, bearing 327.4 from Beta Gamma II was rumored to have unusual activity these last few months – ship activity, with ion trails. Then the raids began – first on outposts not within Federation jurisdiction, most of them civilian mining colonies or seedy pleasure planets. But then the raids had moved in, and three months ago a civilian Starbase had been hit. All personnel dead, computer tapes wiped clean. Then the _Equator_, a science vessel manned by both Terran and Rigelian doctors, had been targeted and toyed with, according to frantic subspace messages that went out when the ship was attacked, then blown apart. No apparent reason. It reeked of terrorism, the oldest demoralizing trick in the universe. Jonn had read about it in Terran history and encountered it many times in his travels in the galaxy. It was cruel, undiscriminating and, worst of all, it worked.

_As long as we let it work_, he thought. He pushed the thought deep into his subconscious as he made his way to the trading grounds to bargain for items to sell the mysterious folk in the asteroid belt.

**--**

McCoy woke to find himself in bed, covers pulled up to his neck. The early morning sun streamed in through the un-shuttered windows, dazzling him. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he observed Spock sitting in a chair near the bed, looking uncomfortable in his sleep. McCoy smiled, realizing he had rarely seen the Vulcan in that state – normal sleep, that is.

Moving carefully, he tried to get out of bed without waking his friend, but at the first whisper of movement Spock's eyes flew open. He rose quickly, showing no outward appearance of just having awakened. "Should you be up? I was unable to rouse you after you lost consciousness last night."

McCoy raised a hand in protest. "Don't mother-hen me, Spock. It doesn't suit you. Besides, I'm all right – haven't been getting very much rest since we dry-docked, that's all."

Spock remained near him, as if expecting him to repeat last night's fainting episode. "Last night. . ." The Vulcan took a step nearer. "Did you dream?"

"Nope. At least, not that I can remember. Maybe this whole dream thing has been due to tension, to change of venue or something." His answer was cheerful as he pulled on a robe and hunted his slippers. "After all, a five-year mission would take its toll on the CMO, too. Jim's up in the mountains of Virginia, not stranded in some death-camp." He located the truant slippers under the bed and sat on its edge to put them on. Only after he straightened up did he see the stark pain on Spock's face. It was his turn to go to the Vulcan.

"What?"

"It seems your hunch about the dreams was correct. I believe that in my close contact with you last night I was made privy to the same information." Spock canted his head slightly, giving him an air of perplexity. "I had the same dream."

McCoy's knees felt weak, but he hurried after the Vulcan as he left the room. "What're you doing?"

Spock sat at the captain's desk and accessed computer records of Jim's itinerary. It showed the location of the civilian transport beam and comlink near the Humpback Rock sector of the ancient Appalachian Trail, logged nearly two months ago. Spock immediately accessed the commcode and spoke with the computer at that end. In a few seconds, they had enough information to show that Jim had indeed beamed in, logged a trail plan of ascent and direction, then returned before planned to beam out again. Stardate: two weeks ago. Destination: Starfleet Command, San Francisco.

McCoy and Spock looked at each other. It was time to go talk to a certain admiral about a certain captain. . .

**--**

Jonn checked the ship's instruments, heading out on impulse power to temporarily throw off anyone who might be following his maneuvers. He calculated the distance, planning to change course only after initiating the warp engine. He knew, of course, that any moderately sophisticated sensors would eventually pick up his ion trail, but he was only trying to slow them down, not hide – that was impossible anyway. He'd soon be attempting to trade with them, he hoped, but on his terms – not theirs.

The little ship hummed quietly, its computers and scanners making sounds not unlike the _Enterprise_, only here they surrounded him closely, their sounds soothing.

His thoughts drifted, touching on brief, incomplete memory patterns of the new Faal persona. There were moments of déjà vu as the memories seemed sharply defined and real, followed by a sinking in the pit of his stomach caused by tattered fragments of unfinished patterns. If only he'd had more time – there were so many ways to destroy a mind, to break it open like a ripe melon. Kirk knew his weaknesses – family ties and allegiances, friendships and love – and had labored to bury them in the new persona. Faal was brash, roguish, in love with no one but himself. Given time, the trader personality would have become totally dominant, but the transformation was incomplete. Faal often found himself facing the Kirk personality head-on, and it could prove extremely dangerous. Above all Faal must protect Kirk, protect his weaknesses and hide his strengths – strengths which would easily identify a starship captain.

He sat up, blinking, wondering if he had fallen asleep. It wouldn't do to let his guard down now, as he neared the asteroid belt. No – there it was again, a subtle change in the _feel_ of the ship. Instruments showed nothing, but his instincts were screaming and he reacted instantly. Hoping his calculations had been correct, with no time to recalibrate, he slammed her into warp drive, simultaneously altering course.

As the ship entered hyperspace and Jonn grew accustomed to the distorted star fields, the sensors registered _something_, a trace of what could be antimatter radiation, but it faded quickly. But that was enough to convince him his instincts had been right. What he had felt must have been the tag end of a tractor beam, just out of range and, though touching his ship, unable to latch on. If he had waited only a few more seconds. . .

Jonn bit his lip, checking instruments. They knew he was there. It was only a matter of time before they would catch up with him.

**--**

The incorporeal alien brooded in the physical darkness of the ship's stateroom, his shapelessness less transparent in the gloom. So many travels, so may countless eons of time and distance! A hulk of bitterness and hatred, he was an outcast, a reject from a changing society which could not – would not harbor him. The pride of conquest ran deep in his line – of victory, of supreme power which utterly crushed its enemies until there were no more enemies.

The culture had changed over millennia; an unnatural peace ensued. No member of his race had ever done battle with another; only intergalactic conquests had been sought. Yet now, with his people falling into this strange apathy, he had found himself first frustrated, then desperate. No argument, no debate, could move them. His family status lent him no lever; apathy, he soon found, was like impervious alloys – nothing could penetrate the inertia. Anger toward his fellow creatures, especially toward his father – a leader among his people – ensued.

He could still remember the bitter argument: bitter on his part, unresponsive on his father's – the belligerency that welled up in him, the feelings of fear and revulsion when he watched his father's essence dissipate in the fury of his own hate.

It was then his people awoke enough to recognize the danger of a mind grown formidably powerful with unbridled emotion and zeal for a dead custom. But when they approached Ganezh, he reacted instinctively, lashing out and destroying many before they could raise their own defenses.

Soon enough were assembled to subdue him. They trial was brief, and he was forever banished from their galaxy. His power was undiminished, however, and his hatred fueled it further as he sought out new worlds and peoples to conquer.

But it was a lonely life. There was no one with whom he could communicate – there was only a spark of fright or awe before any creature he came in contact with blinked out. He had long ago given up hope of finding anyone who was worthy of his communication, and he had since learned to shut that part of himself out when he put such beings into service.

Instead Ganezh gave himself totally to a lust for power and the display of such power to reveal the giant mind behind it. He knew it was wasted on the puny creatures he contacted, but his increasingly warped ego demanded the carnival nonetheless.

Ganezh moved his formless body through the bulkhead, seeking an Orion to inhabit. His restlessness drove him to subvert yet another being to his will. It would have to be soon, and he hungered for it like food. And Ganezh didn't like to be kept waiting.

**--**

"She said what?" McCoy's voice was incredulous, though tinged with anger.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere," said Spock, moving off with studied calm. McCoy followed, all too aware of the multitude of Starfleet personnel swarming around them in the square, yet unable to completely mask his fury. He grumbled under his breath as he and his Vulcan companion walked toward their hover car, but Spock did not comment.

McCoy waited until they were in the sound-proof safely of the vehicle before he spoke. "Okay, are you going to explain the deep complexities of the lieutenant's lame-brain excuse to me, or did I really understand her to say the admiral won't see us?"

"I believe you understood the lieutenant quite well, though you did misquote her."

"My apologies for all my shortcomings, Spock. But dammit all!"

"It does seem strange that Admiral Nogura has never postponed a meeting with me for very long. And this is the first time I have received a flat refusal."

"Well," said McCoy, crossing his arms. "You realize this means we've got to find Jim on our own, of course."

"True. It follows that if Admiral Nogura is not talking to us, we may assume Starfleet is not talking to us either. We both are on extended leave. If we disappear, retire to Jim's apartment for a time, they will assume we are taking advantage of our R&R and leave us alone. This should free us to try to locate the captain, if we are careful."

"What's the first step?"

"To eat my dinner – I am below quota."

The doctor smiled to himself. The decision to do something rallied him, despite the grim fact that Jim was missing. Nogura knew something, but since he and Starfleet weren't willing to talk about it – as if Jim were nothing – he and Spock must pursue the captain themselves. If that pursuit led them into a region of the unknown, they could just as easily disappear into that same vague world of nobodies. . .

**--**

The ship convulsed as the warp engine shut down, throwing it spiraling into sublight. Faal cursed softly as he struggled to right her. The gravity field gyrated and he found himself flung away from, then slammed back into his chair by turns. He wrapped one leg around the base of the seat, wedging his other knee under the control panel, hoping distractedly his muscles would hold out. Another blast rocked the ship, and somewhere in the small cargo bay area he could hear the tell-tale whistle of escaping air.

Whoever was chipping away at Jonn's little ship was playing with him. They didn't intend to destroy him, at least not right away, or they could have done so easily many times over. It infuriated him that he had no way to fight back. But defenses would have given him away as surely as the new grey Starfleet uniform. Kirk surfaced a moment, hating the new uniforms – they weren't as comfortable as the old ones and they still didn't have any pockets.

Faal squelched the Kirk intrusion and managed to stop the ship's tumbling, but was unable to get her on course as the impulse engine was non-functional, too. His eyes jerked to the screen as he caught his first glimpse of his opponent. The ship was larger – about a fifty-man complement – and it loomed in his viewscreen, blotting out the surrounding stars. Helpless, Jonn waited for their next move. He immediately recognized the tug of a tractor beam and watched the strange ship grow closer, it's bay doors opening as he was drawn nearer.

"This is it," he said quietly, and leaned back in the chair, relaxing as much as he could, quelling a growing fear with only partial success. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the encroaching ship and disappearing stars, and focused on what Spock had taught him. He had completed the initial preparation, taking all classified information and locking it under a pall of gibberish. He had built up his alter-ego personality, rehearsing imagined conversations with equally imagined people and attempted to embellish Faal's memory patterns. The hardest part, however, had been the dissimilation of James Kirk. That one had a nasty way of breaking through, as it had just now, bringing with him knowledge which could cause the demise of one Jonn Faal – or worse, total and permanent insanity.

And now it was time. His hands shook as he concentrated harder, wishing fervently he were a Vulcan at that moment, and then pushing even that wish far away, to where there were no such things as Vulcans, Vulcan officers, or Vulcan friends named Spock. . .

**--**

No additional itinerary filed at this time

Jim's personal computer flashed this message three times, then held it permanently on screen. Spock looked up at McCoy, who hovered at his elbow when he wasn't pacing the room. "His computer has no record of his whereabouts."

"I can _see_ that, Spock. You think if something's up he's gonna broadcast it for the world to see? Maybe it's coded."

"I am attempting to determine that now." The Vulcan's hands flew over the keyboard, bypassing voice commands, and complex computer language began to fill the screen. The doctor felt as if he were looking at ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics in the making, his eyes glazing over a bit, until he realized Spock had ceased to type and was looking up at him again, one eyebrow several millimeters higher than the other. "Perhaps you would care for more Louisiana coffee."

McCoy grinned. "Yeah, and Chinese tea for you – I can take a hint."

Spock hovered over the console until the late hours, fortified by McCoy's tea, deciphering random housekeeping codes, bank account and medical codes, none of which were top secret or lent any clue as to where the captain might be. There had been absolutely nothing there, nothing which could be remotely construed as a lead. As Jim would say, a 'dead-end'.

"Clear screen and close access, computer," he said, and the computer complied by promptly turning itself off. The room seemed tangibly darker without its small light, and sounds from the bay, previously unnoticed, were now plainly audible. Spock grew aware of the noise of McCoy's puttering in the kitchen. He rose slowly and entered the other room. McCoy took one look at him and shoved a heavy mug into his hands.

"You don't look so good. Didn't find anything?" Spock glanced up at him, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, shaking his head 'no'. "Spock, maybe we're not going at this thing right. Maybe Jim didn't have time to key anything in that computer of his. Maybe he had to take off – why else would he cut short his hike? We don't even know if he had an opportunity to come back here after he left the Appalachians. . ."

The two men looked hard at each other for a split second before they both abandoned their hot drinks and hurried to the captain's clothes closet.

**--**

He was aware of a light originating somewhere outside the hull of his tiny ship, but he couldn't bring his eyes to focus on it, or turn his head to follow its path. The ship moved in unnatural ways, as if resting in some kind of gravitational pull. Occasionally an audible _bang_ would ring through the cabin air, vibrating through the bulkhead. Still the light grew brighter and closer.

Slowly, as he came out of the deep mental discipline, his vision began to clear and he could make out the spotlight tracking his ship's movement into the bay. Part of her undercarriage must have been blown away in the attack; she leaned heavily aft, making it difficult for him to stand upright. He wondered briefly if the hatch would open.

There were noises outside the ship, echoing hollowly off the bay walls. The doors must have been closed and the bay area re-pressurized. He was debating whether to exit the ship and take his chances before anyone came when the hatch blew inward, sending bits of the bulkhead flying about the cabin. Jonn flung up his hands to shield his eyes, lost his balance, and fell heavily against the opposite wall. As he struggled to stand again he saw a shadow in the blown hatchway, a black outline of someone who approached his ship. Its ominous shape called up childhood tales of stealthy night creatures that stalked sleeping children and he stiffened involuntarily, closing his eyes for a moment, fighting down something. . . "My name is Jonn Faal," he murmured, "and my business is my own. My name is Jonn Faal. . ." He continued, strengthening his defenses as long as he could before the interrogations began.

He wondered, off-handedly, what kind of torture they used.

The figure stepped up to the hatchway, its humanoid shoulders blocking all but a few escaping shafts of light that pierced the murky air like phasers. Jonn could not make out its features, but it had a mouth and, in the vicinity of where eyes should be, three red, glowing points of light, deep-set and molten.

_Who Are You?_ The words burned in Jonn's mind, probing, hurting.

Jonn felt the pressure of its powerful mind, and an uncanny weight descended upon him. Still, he must do as he had set out to do. He squared his shoulders and returned the alien's gaze. "My name is Jonn Faal. . ." he began, but got no further. The pressure of the alien became a relentless squeeze, and he felt his throat constrict, the air trapped in his lungs.

_You Will Not Play Child's Games With Me, Human._ Faal felt the alien's mind reach into his own like fingers, grabbing at the night-creature memory, examining it, enhancing it. _Know What It Is To Experience Fear And Pain Beyond Your Control, Deeper And More Terrifying Than Your Nightmares. Know It, And Scream. . ._

**--**

"Spock, what are we looking for?"

"If I knew that, Doctor, I would not be going through the captain's clothing."

Kirk's bedroom was a mess. What had started out as a simple search through the closet had turned into a jumbled pile of clothing turned out of drawers onto the bed, shelves bereft of neatly stacked boxes, now emptied on the floor.

But they discovered nothing, other than the fact that James Kirk had an affection for clothes one would never have guessed. Bones wondered just when he found the time to wear all of them. He sat back on his heels, marveling at the chaos they had created in such a shot time, as Spock pulled a small trunk from the closet.

"This is the last of Jim's things."

McCoy didn't bother to get up, but crawled over to Spock and sat cross-legged beside him as the Vulcan raised the lid. Inside, in a small box, were holographs of Jim's family: two tow-headed boys hanging from a low-lying tree limb, a farmhouse in the background; a solemn-faced man who stood stiffly behind the same two boys; a young James Kirk in his first cadet uniform, his youthfulness belied by the serious look on his unlined face.

"I do not believe our answers are here," said Spock, gently replacing the cover to the box and laying it aside.

"What's this?" McCoy pulled out a large canvas bag and opened it. In it was a pair of mud-caked hiking boots, a thermos, and rations. The doctor spied something else and rummaged in the bottom of the bag, pulling it out triumphantly. "His registration ticket for the Appalachian Trail, Spock. He _was_ here. He must have sneaked in some time when I was out."

Spock looked at him.

"I know, I know. That doesn't help us know where he is _now_." McCoy stood up, looking around the room again. "But if he came here, he had to have done something which would give us a clue. He had to have brought something with him, or taken something away." Bones looked down at the still-kneeling first officer and bent over the dark head. "Spock, do you suppose Jim had time to access a personal safe in this apartment?"

Spock stood up so quickly McCoy had to scramble to get out of his way. "Yes, I believe he would have _made_ time. He couldn't leave his personal effects on the ship. We must endeavor to find it."

"You look. I'll start cleaning up this mess. Jim will be furious when he sees this." McCoy found himself thinking _if he gets back_, but brushed the thought angrily aside, concentrating instead on the task at hand.

He had barely begun the cleanup when Spock called him from the other room. There for all the world to see was a safe panel with access key. It was so obvious it had been almost invisible, situated in a side wall similarly to the one which had been in Jim's cabin on the _Enterprise_. Spock crouched before it, unconsciously rubbing his slender fingers together. McCoy looked at the access key. "You don't suppose he kept the same code he had on the ship, do you?"

"Possible, since that code was known only to him, to me and one other officer. It was never entered into any permanent record. He programmed the code himself."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Only _one_ other? Wonder who that could have been?"

"Unknown, Doctor. It was deemed best that Jim alone knew the identity of the other officer. That way, in the event of capture. . ." Spock stood slowly, towering over the physician. "_You_ are the other officer?"

"Yep."

Spock chewed the inside of his lip briefly before bending to key the access code. The panel slid aside smoothly, and the first officer reached in the compartment, drawing out a small, leather portfolio. Once opened, it revealed several medals of honor, citations of commendation and, like a death sentence, the orders to transfer off the _Enterprise_. Spock passed this by quickly as McCoy _hmphed_ in the background.

In a back pocket of the portfolio was another, smaller one, jammed in crookedly as if replaced in haste. Spock drew it out and handed it to McCoy, somewhat uncomfortable with the feelings that surfaced as they went through his friend's personal things. Bones opened the catch and sharply drew breath. "Spock, something is mighty wrong here." He turned the book around so that the Vulcan could see its contents. In it were Jim's ID compcard, his transponder, communicator and subQ translator. "_No_ Starfleet officer, whether on duty or not, would leave his ID behind, and if Jim had an inkling he was going to be away for awhile, he wouldn't leave these other things, either."

"Unless. . ." Spock reached for the book and replaced it in the larger one, putting them back into the safe and keying it closed. He walked slowly over to the large window, gazing down on the bay below.

McCoy came up beside him, his blue eyes shaded, withdrawn. "Unless he's gone underground."

**--**

Ganezh stood in his Orion host's body, hands on hips, and looked upon the still form of the human, abstractly interested in his primitive brain patterns. He would not have bothered with such a one at all, crushing him utterly with a thought, except for the evidence of synapse displacement. This one might prove a trifle amusing, if he didn't toy with it too much at first. Best to let it recover somewhat before drawing it further into the game.

The alien's stance slouched suddenly, and he placed his hands behind his back. He lingered over the human's body, studying him. It had been so long since he had talked to anyone, really communicated. Lately he had found himself reaching out to the little entities he had come across, knowing on the one hand that there was no life-form in this galaxy worthy of his touch, on the other hand hoping he might discover a hidden fluke in nature. But he found only the simplest of mind patterns, the most rudimentary thought processes. No doubt he would discover the same with this creature, but he was loath to find out too quickly.

Ganezh touched the human's mind once again; the man-creature shuddered, but did not otherwise move. _Still Responsive – Satisfactory_. Turning his corporeal shell around with some difficulty, Ganezh moved to a comm unit and called his Orion servants to fetch this one and put him away safely until he decided what to do with him. After all, he told himself, there was no hurry. . . he had plenty of time.

**--**

Spock sat before the computer, hands in his lap, as if waiting for it to suddenly wake up and tell him how to find James Kirk. He had approached his search from the viewpoint that if Jim had gone underground, he would most likely have set up a primary ID file, probably in the civilian files. But where to go from there? The captain could have chosen any name, any identity, as long as it generally fit his species. A retina scan comparison would have been simple to do if he were dealing with Starfleet, but logic dictated Kirk would have steered away from them. Besides, he admitted to himself wryly, as soon as he tried accessing Starfleet files they would know what he was up to, and see to it he got no further. Starfleet would be a final recourse, if all else should fail.

He felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders pulling with fatigue. He fought the urge to stretch for another hour, continuing the search, assuring himself that it was he who would determine when he would rest, not his body. When the hour was up, he did not bother to undress, but lay upon the floor, eyes open, hands folded across his chest, awaiting the dawn.

**--**

Tendrils of white-hot flame licked at him, inching up his body. He struggled to escape, but found he could not move, bound by an invisible weight that made him shake. The flame was inside him now, curling around his mind, tickling, feeling, stabbing occasionally to draw pain like blood, then caressing, soothing him – only to stab again, and again. . .

He tried to cry out, but there was no sound; he was trapped in an endless nightmare of aborted screams. The sensations in his mind terrified him, titillated him, ripped his thoughts from him and flung them back, mutilated and bizarre. Somewhere in the turmoil and confusion he knew he was safe, but only a part of him, and a part of what he knew. He must center, center – but again the flame fingers squeezed until he grew breathless. . .

Ganezh laughed out loud, his corporeal host's choppy bark sounding strange in his hearing. The human was trying to _fight_ him, how extraordinary! He had undergone some form of mind discipline – simple in the extreme, but interesting. The game had excited him, something he had not experienced in uncounted ages. Yes, he was glad he had saved this one. Perhaps the human had some information which would prove useful to him. Perhaps he would actually be able to communicate. . .

Ganezh shook himself, angry that this weakness had surfaced again. He needed no one, desired nothing but his own pleasure. He looked down upon the man curled helpless at his feet, moaning and shivering like a lost child. His lip curled in contempt. How puny these humans were, how puny all the races he had encountered in this galaxy. There were a few who offered brief entertainment, like this one, but in the end, they were all nothing, useful only for servitude – such as his Orion servants here on this ship and elsewhere in the asteroid belt – or for destruction. Even that was losing its attraction. Perhaps, after this, it would be time.

Malevolent eyes focused on the human, bringing to bear another level of pain as he mauled its subconscious mind. Drawing upon all the hatred, bitterness and hopelessness within himself, Ganezh twisted and plunged the esper-knife even deeper, watching the human at first fight the sensation and then, as Ganezh applied more pressure, scream long and hard, his hands flung out as if pinned to the floor.

Ganezh let him scream until his breath was gone, then released him. Jonn went limp and knew no more for awhile; a single tear coursed down his dirty cheek.

_How Touching!_ Ganezh smirked, and left the human to wake up on his own. If indeed he were to wake up at all.

**--**

"Doctor, I must concede defeat."

McCoy hurried to Spock's side. "You can't mean that! There has to be more you can do!"

"Not here at this computer. I need access to Starfleet files."

"Uh-uh, you know what will happen if you do that! Spock, they'll wrap us up in so much red tape we'll never find Jim."

"I am perfectly aware of that. However, there are other ways to access their files without drawing undue scrutiny."

McCoy looked at him, puzzled, until he began to comprehend the Vulcan's train of thought. His face transformed with a slow smile. "You don't mean you're going to take the _Enterprise_?"

"Can you think of a better way to find Jim, or go to his aid?"

"Well, no. But there are two problems with that."

"Go on."

"You won't get her for another three weeks, and even when you do get her, they could assign you to a quadrant thousands of light years away from the captain's location."

"Those are distinct possibilities; however, I can think of no other course of action at this time. We can use the remaining weeks before departure to seek out other means of locating the captain."

McCoy sighed. "You're right, of course, but – but I can't forget the dreams." He spread his hands. "A lot could happen in that time."

"We will have to trust the captain's instincts. You and I know he would be as prepared as possible; he is not a rash man."

"Not under normal circumstances," mumbled the doctor, dropping into a chair. "You plan on taking me along on this trip?"

"Of course. I will personally request your services on board the _Enterprise_."

McCoy had no doubt the Vulcan would get his way, if for no other reason than Starfleet's attempt to assuage the humiliation of Nogura's refused interview.

But to wait three whole weeks! Damn, but he hated bureaucracy!

**--**

Jonn woke slowly, the dull throbbing in his skull serving to push him back toward consciousness. Every muscle in his body ached, as if he'd been through a street brawl. He found himself lying on the floor in a small, windowless cell. The faint vibrations he felt told him he was still on a ship, sublight if he had to make a guess.

He sat up, leaning against the bulkhead for support, forcing himself to think, refusing to remember the torment he had been subjected to. The memory alone brought back such flashes of horror it was everything he could do to push it away. He drew his knees up, wrapping his arms around them as if to ward off the bouts of trembling plaguing him, closing his eyes and trying to center. Jonn Fall, merchant and entrepreneur. Jonn Faal, unknown point of origin, unknown ancestry. Jonn Faal. . .

_Jonn Fall, Is It?_

The question reverberating in his mind brought his fists slamming down, hard, against the deck. He jerked his head up defiantly, attempting to see the entity to whom this disembodied voice belonged.

"I _am_ Jonn Faal, dammit! What do you want with me, anyway? I'm just a merchant. . ."

_And Not Worthy Of My Notice. How Convenient For You. _ The entity's voice battered Jonn's mind with every hateful syllable, but he continued to resist. He thought he could discern a vague form near the door, now – the searing thoughts of the entity seemed to be coming from that direction. At any rate, he found himself staring into the darkness, looking for signs of movement.

_You Wish To See Me, Human? That Can Be Arranged. But Not As You Saw Me Before, When You First Dared To Challenge Me. Look Upon Me As I Am!_

Jonn watched, transfixed, as the vague shape began to take on more substance, glowing brighter with an inner light, gaining height and width until it seemed to fill the room. He realized with horror that the entity had surrounded him and was again encroaching on his own thoughts. The human braced himself, jaw set, hands against the floor, anticipating the onslaught which would surely come.

When the slow seconds ticked by with no pain, not even a tremor, he opened his eyes to find himself alone, a dim light suffusing the darkness. There was a rattle at the barred door and a tray was pushed through the slot. Steam rose from the food and an aroma wafted toward him which made him swallow with sudden hunger. He stood carefully, still feeling weak, and walked over to the door. There was no sound from the other side, and his eyes were drawn to the food on the tray – no telling how long it had been since he had last eaten, how long he had been in that room.

Picking up the tray, he made his way back to the wall and sniffed the food suspiciously. It smelled wonderful. Using the utensil provided – a rounded, innocuous thing – he picked up something which smelled amazingly like stewed apple, and he took a small bite.

After what he had been through, this seemed like a slice of heaven. He held it on his tongue, savoring the cinnamon and nutmeg garnish, and wasn't there a little brown sugar? Finally, with a sigh, he swallowed. Finding himself still alive a few seconds later, he tackled the rest of the food with relish.

Each item was fresh-grown; a processor or synthesizer had never touched them. Something in the back of his battered mind warned him he should question such fresh Terran food in deep space, but another part of him was remembering a large wooden table in an old farmhouse, the scent of ripening wheat mingling with the aromas of just-baked bread from the kitchen. He reached for an ear of corn and had his hand slapped by the smiling woman who headed back into the kitchen, admonishing him to wash his hands first. His brother, hair bleached by the Iowa sun, sauntered in, showing off his freshly washed hands, and reached over to tousle his hair.

'_Sam, stop pestering the boy and eat your dinner'_, said the woman as she came in carrying a large platter.

Jonn basked in the vision, forgetting his food, caught up in the intense reality of it. He and Sam and Mother were carrying on simple, often teasing, conversation. They talked of the crop which would soon be ready, of Mother's current research for the Academy of Sciences, of Sam's acceptance into the University – and how his father would have disapproved.

'_Don't worry, Sam,'_ he heard himself saying. _'I'm going to join Starfleet, so no one can say none of us followed Dad in joining the service.'_

"No," he said, dropping the tray.

'_But son, you can't do that just to carry on some silly family tradition. You know how your father was never at home. . .'_

"No, stop it!" Center, Jonn,_ center!_ The human squeezed his fists into his eye sockets, trying to force himself to break out of the vision that gripped him. Any minute now, the entity would know of the other one, the hidden one, and then the door would be opened. . .

'_Mom, it's not what you think. It's what I want – it's what I've always wanted. I've already sent in my application. . .'_

"God, not this way, not this way!" Desperately, Jonn picked up the utensil, placing it under his left rib, and without another thought threw himself upon it with all his weight.

A high, keen wailing echoed from somewhere outside the room, whether from the vision or from the entity, he could not tell. Jonn was aware of a wet warmth spreading through his clothes and trickling out onto his hand which still clenched the utensil handle. The rest of it was hidden beneath the reddening folds of his tunic.

There was no pain, but rather a blessed release. He had saved the hidden one, at least for now, and as his mind sank into soft blackness, he hoped he would be freed forever from the entity by his own death.


	4. Chapter 3

Empty Spaces

Empty Spaces

Chapter Three

Ganezh volubly cursed himself, the universe, and the unknown, his own thought-language rendered ludicrous by the vocal chords of the Orion host body. He pounded the corridor bulkheads as he moved, sending the other Orions skittering back to their respective duties. The body he occupied would perish soon, and he would cast his strange third eye upon another one of them, snuffing its mind like a candle and possessing the physical vessel for his own until it, too, burned out.

Ganezh knew they hated him and feared him, and he scorned their hatred and fear as he scorned everything now – totally. Nothing of their thoughts or emotions could touch him, and yet this one small, unsubstantial human had. He had resisted Ganezh's first onslaught; the second one, though it penetrated his mind patterns more deeply, was also parried. The human was desperately hiding something, and Ganezh had resorted to mind-games to lure him into a sense of well-being, drawing from memories he had not completely locked away. But Ganezh had not counted on the thing attempting to _kill_ itself. He cursed again, using the high language of D'al, invoking pain and misery for a thousand lifetimes upon this galaxy's inhabitants.

The human would not die. The small wound the eating tool made was not deep, though it had done damage enough. Let the human suffer for his stupidity! Perhaps, for his amusement and as a demonstration to Rriendal, captain of this ship and representative to his Orion subservients in this sector, Ganezh would use his new toy on the human – the Mind-Ripper. Conceived and designed by himself and built to his specifications by the Orion crew, it could do a satisfactory job of bending a mind, twisting it, or ripping it to shreds. Of course it could not do as effective a job as he personally could, but it was indeed a legacy he could leave behind. In the right hands, motivated by greed, the toy could prove a formidable weapon. It satisfied his own growing dementia that he could leave such a mark of hatred behind him. But no, the device was already situated on the asteroid below, tested on prisoners and guards alike. It was working its destruction, and he would leave it unmolested.

He paused by a darkened alcove, listening, then reached in to pull out a frightened Orion who had been attempting to hide there. He grabbed the green two-eyed servile creature by the throat and bored its mind with his own third eye until the creature squirmed with pain and fear. _Give the human water, but do not feed him. You and the others are not to communicate with him. Do you understand?_ The Orion, its air passage almost crushed, could only nod assent. Ganezh threw it from him and walked away, knowing it would hurry to do his bidding.

The alien stopped before Rriendal's door, unable to pass through in this body he inhabited. In an instant the Orion host body palsied and collapsed to the floor like a discarded sack, and Ganezh passed unhindered into the Commander's stateroom.

Rriendal managed to keep from reacting physically, though he knew Ganezh could read this thoughts and feel his rising panic. To his credit, he placed both hands on the table and faced the alien, unblinking. "May I be of service, Ganezh-rhan?"

_No need to pander to me with your foolish worship-words, Rriendal. I have a brief message for you before I move on. I have grown weary of this tedious existence, and I have grown especially weary of __you__!._

_I could say the same of you_, thought Rriendal before he could stop himself. He felt the hot anger emanating from the alien, burning in his mind. "I beg forgiveness, Rhan. It has been a long day – my mind is undisciplined."

_As is all of your race, and every other race encountered so far in this galaxy. As is your lack of ethics. I can see you are convinced I will not keep my part of the bargain._

Indeed, Rriendal had been thinking just that. It was inconceivable that an alien as powerful as Ganezh would agree to give them the means to construct a Mind-Developer which would give his people the ability to control anyone through simple subspace broadcasts. True, it had not yet been thoroughly tested – only the slave compound, now converted to a prisoner camp, had been fitted with the device carrying a short-range transmitter. But if it did test out as promised, it could not only be a tool for furthering advantageous trade, but a formidable weapon, as well. Some Orions in his position had glimpsed what it might be like to have power not only to conduct trade, but to _control_ it, and it was a sweeter prize than any monetary gain. Yet it was a dangerous quest, as it violated the somewhat twisted, but nevertheless viable tenets of Orion – _free_ trade. The means were unimportant so long as the bargainers reached an agreement of their own volition. If there was a problem with quality of shipment, that was another matter. Orions were Orions. To deal with an Orion trader was to deal with parts of the galaxy often out of bounds to many other species. To hire an Orion messenger was to secure inroads anywhere one wished. This was a heritage and a reputation the Orion culture had built for itself over the centuries.

But now there were a few – a very influential few – who wished for more than a good reputation. To put it in Terran terms, they wanted a bigger slice of the pie. And if rubbing their noses in Ganezh's dung would get them that bigger slice, they would do it enthusiastically. Petty commanders like himself could only follow the orders of the rebel fief-lord councils who funded slave trade and barter routes in this sector. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if a device such as he Mind-Developer could be turned on the Orions themselves if it fell into the wrong hands. Rriendal smirked. He knew all too well the philosophy of his people, a philosophy he followed himself: opportunity first, principal second – if convenient.

The Orion commander shrugged slightly, knowing Ganezh had understood everything he had just pondered.

Ganezh's form wavered and diminished. Rriendal had to stare hard to see the fiery orbs which were all that remained visible of the alien.

_You will remind your superiors that I am never so far away that I cannot return in an instant, that I am never so distant that I cannot make my anger felt, that I am never so angry that I cannot take time to play. . ._

And with that, Ganezh was gone.

ooOOoo

"Spock, I've been thinking. . ." McCoy trailed off as he entered Jim's room to find Spock sitting on the edge of the bed, the small trunk open before him. The Vulcan held in his hand some of the old holographs they discovered when going through the captain's things, studying them minutely. He did not look up when the doctor entered the room.

"An admirable occupation," he said, chin in hand, as he continued to look at one holo in particular.

Bones sat down beside him and saw that he was looking at Cadet Kirk, rigid with responsibility, all of seventeen years old. "He was the youngest to be admitted into the Academy. Still a kid, really."

"But not too young, Doctor. The drive and will were already there. Look at his eyes."

But McCoy was not looking at Jim's holo. He was looking instead, with a critical physician's eye, at the Vulcan. Spock was evidencing signs of extreme fatigue – smudges of deep green lay above high cheekbones, the nictating membranes slipping below the outer lids – a sure sign of exhaustion in a Vulcan.

The doctor pulled out a Feinberg and played it over the first officer – no, it was _captain_ now – he had received his orders officially this morning. McCoy had been signed on, too, as Chief Medical Officer on the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. "Never thought I'd see the day," he muttered, studying the mediscan's read-outs.

The Vulcan did not respond, another sure sign of deep weariness. McCoy frowned with concern.

"Spock, you've got to get some rest. You haven't been sleeping or even meditating, by the look of this scan – you should do something about it."

Spock dragged his eyes away from the holo and looked blankly at the other man. "_Do_?"

"Dammit, Spock, don't play with me! Can't you pull off that healing trance thing you're so fond of?" He added, _sotto voce_: "Though I still think it's a lame excuse to fulfill some masochistic tendency. . ."

"You are quite aware of the need for the subject to be struck several times to successfully leave the trance safely. I see no reason for you to speculate. . ."

"Don't change the subject – you're ill, Spock, or you're soon going to be, if you don't get some rest. Hell, don't you think I'm just as worried about Jim as you are? We've just got to go on hoping he's all right, and. . ." Something in Spock's look stopped the doctor cold, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand preternaturally. "Spock?"

The Vulcan inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

McCoy's eyebrows went up in alarm. "For God's sake, tell me."

The Vulcan slouched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You are perhaps aware of a certain – empathy – between Jim and myself."

"No secret. Anyone who's worked closely with you two has observed that. Why?"

"It has certain advantages, obviously. Often we have been spared the necessity of verbal communication and, in times of crisis, this has saved lives. But there are disadvantages. Though I am specifically a touch-telepath, I am a descendent of healers, which has made me somewhat more sensitive to thoughts emanating around me, despite the lack of physical contact. I have, of course, learned to shield from most of them."

"Except Jim?"

"In part. On Vulcan, if two acquaintances share a deep friendship, a bond sometimes occurs between them, similar to the bond often experienced by identical twins on Earth. Siblings who have been separated since birth and later reunited have often found themselves having experienced the same goals, thoughts, injuries, emotions – even pain, either mutually or experientally."

"Like if one is injured and the other senses it."

"Precisely."

"You think you have that kind of bond with Jim?"

"Yes. It has strengthened over the years until it is a tangible link between us. Most unusual, considering Jim is a non-telepath."

"True. But you yourself so much as said it was empathy as much as telepathy which played a part in the bonding process. Jim is _extremely_ empathic, so much so I have to keep an eye on him when one of the crew is killed or maimed. He feels more than just responsibility for the incident – he _feels_, Spock, and deeply. If he hadn't rated so high on the objectivity scale during the entrance psycho-scans he'd have never made it into Starfleet. He's had to control it all his life, but it's kept him human, too. Kept him from becoming a martinet, despite that stubborn streak of his."

McCoy's throat tightened as he recalled, out of nowhere, a brief scene in sickbay when Kirk, grinning devilishly, made his appearance to a decimated Vulcan officer who believed he had killed his captain in the passion of the blood fever. Once again he had thwarted death, but not without McCoy's help. Now he was alone. . .

"Damn him. _Damn_ him, anyway!"

"I see no logic in abusing the captain in that way."

"I'll abuse him any way I like! If you can sit there and kill yourself with worry because your friend has gone off on some cockamamie mission without even bothering to let you know, fine! But I can't – I've got to know _something_. I've got to _help_ him, don't you understand? I want to know where he gets off not telling us where he was going, or what he was doing – didn't he know we'd be worried sick? I swear, if I ever have the pleasure of seeing that sweetheart face of his again I'll kick his butt clear across to Rigel II!"

"Certainly if thoughts of displacing parts of Jim's anatomy give you a measure of consolation, then by all means indulge in them. However, I would prefer to lend my energies to finding him first. Then you may do with him as you like." Spock's features had lost a little of their stony look.

McCoy gave in to a small smile. "Just letting off steam – feel better for it, too. You should try it some time."

Spock gave the doctor a 'you've got to be kidding' look and resumed his perusal of the holo. "We are relatively certain Jim has embarked on an undercover mission."

"And?"

"We have also deduced that he has gone as a civilian, and under an assumed name."

McCoy didn't ans wer, realizing the Vulcan was on to something, and tensed with expectancy.

"I have sensed something in the link which ties in with an event which occurred last year," Spock commenced, pausing long enough for McCoy to show signs of impatience. "I believe the captain has utilized a mind discipline I taught him after we left Organia. His personality is subdued, masked: _overlaid_, if you will, by another personality. I cannot get the name; the mind processes are so jumbled. However, I am certain he is masquerading as a merchant. I keep getting the word _'entrepreneur'_, as if he has said it over and over to himself. Again, this is part of the discipline I taught him. He has never had the need to use it before."

"Until now," McCoy responded. "Why now, then?"

"That is the other part of the puzzle. Do you remember shore leave on Axarxes VI last year, when you and Jim coerced me into beaming down with you?"

"You had your eye on that Fenedimeid Museum exhibit and wouldn't have missed it for anything. Coerced, nothing."

Spock canted his head to the side. "In any event, you may also recall the rather – philosophical – turn the conversation took after you and the captain had partaken of several Saurian brandies."

"They were not Saurian brandies – I distinctly remember they were _green_."

"That was the color of your face later that evening." At McCoy's answering scowl, he continued: "You and the captain began to recall some of our more interesting escapades over the first four years of the mission, the favorite of them being our encounter with Cyrano Jones."

McCoy smiled with the memory. "We were contemplating whether there were enough pockets in that tunic of his to hold all the tribbles he was ordered to collect. I was betting he couldn't handle them all, but Jim reminded me he probably had three times as many pockets inside the tunic as there were on the outside."

"Do you recall his exact words?"

McCoy shrugged. "No."

"I do, and I quote: _'I've got to get me one of those tunics, Bones, only I want all my pockets inside. No sense entrepreneuring unless you can hide all the mysterious stuff, right?'_ Unquote."

McCoy stood up. "Yes! And by God, he went right into the next store he could find and bought one of the damned things. I told him he'd never wear it and he told me you never knew. . ." He stopped, hardly daring to ask the question.

"No, Doctor, the tunic is not here. Unless he threw it away, he has taken it with him."

"The clothes in his closet date back five years or more. He's rarely had occasion to wear them. If the tunic's not in the closet, why – he could be wearing it right now."

Spock placed the holograph, along with others, back in the box, replacing the lid. Across the top, scrawled in Jim's handwriting, was the word "Home". The Vulcan lay his hand upon the word, as if endeavoring to draw something from the touch, before placing it in the trunk.

"Given that he is masquerading as a merchant, there is still no way to determine this merchant's identify. I have already checked the obvious – Barona, for instance – and have initiated an individual scan of every person who left any and all ports of call within a hundred square-mile radius of San Francisco. It will take time."

"I think you aren't as disposed to be patient as you were two weeks ago."

Spock closed his eyes again, the brief flash of vitality gone. "No. I am not because the jumbled mind processes I spoke of a minute ago – they border on the insane, as if they have been tampered with, played with. The psyche of Jim Kirk has been so displaced as to be almost annihilated, but his emotion – his _essence_, as it were, is struggling to escape. At this juncture, I am not sure what is worse – the re-emergence of James Kirk, or the dementia of this new persona who holds him at bay – a persona the captain himself initiated."

"You make it sound hopeless." McCoy felt his stomach go into knots.

"Not hopeless. Just – _urgent_."

"Well that makes me feel a lot better," McCoy barked. "I can go to bed now and sleep like a baby."

"Very well," Spock replied, missing or ignoring the sarcasm. "We report to the _Enterprise_ tomorrow to finish final preparations for departure. I suggest we both try to rest."

"I believe I already said that," muttered the physician as he made his way to the other bedroom.

ooOOoo

Jonn looked over dazedly at the container of water which rested out of reach near the door. For a long time he had weighed the desire for it and the need to remain still, but his thirst grew more intense with every passing minute. He began to half-dream, imagining asking for a glass of water and his mother bringing it to him where he lay, ill with a childhood fever, only to wake and find himself lying on the cold floor, wanting a drink even more desperately than before.

Finally, necessity won out over discomfort, and he rose painfully to his hands and knees, and tried to stand. Waves of dizziness hit him and he was once more forced to his knees. Resignedly, he crawled over to the container and drank his fill. He fumbled with one of the many hidden pockets, seeking a handkerchief, but it like everything else he had carried on his person had been removed. Praying the thread would give, he jerked awkwardly at the pocket until it gave way, taking a bit of the tunic with it, and soaked it in the remaining water.

Wincing with the sudden pain cleansing the wound brought with it, he upbraided himself for his foolishness. He should have known the small utensil wouldn't have done any mortal damage; at the very best, the injury had postponed the inevitable. He didn't know how much time had elapsed since the Entity's last visit. It must have been at least a day or more because the wound had begun to slowly close, though it didn't look right. The skin was flushed an angry red and there was some suppuration. He thought he might have cracked a rib in the fall, too.

Now that he was fully conscious, it could only be a matter of time before the Entity appeared again. He wondered if the alien had tried to explore his mind when he was unconscious and shuddered at the thought, the irrational fear of an intruder in his mind grabbing at his throat with cold fingers. It seemed, however, his waking thoughts had remained untouched. Jonn realized grimly that at the last encounter the Entity had almost learned his true identity, but he also sensed the creature was simply _playing_ with him, as he had played with Civibase 114 and the science vessel. There was no intent on invasion or war, but rather the malicious bent of a mental giant playing cruelly with a small species of ant. Jonn realized that the more the Entity was given to play with, the more he would want. He had to see to it that another, better reason for protecting the Hidden One and his secrets must be devised, in keeping with his new personality. After all, merchants had their secrets, too. Refreshed somewhat by the drink, he crawled once more to the other wall, curling up without benefit of blanket or pallet as if to sleep. In his fevered mind, though, his obsessions was to devise another layer of protection for the Hidden One, always focusing on the "center" of anonymity and self-preservation. Sanity vs. Insanity. He had no way of knowing how his mangled and fevered thoughts would affect the process.

ooOOoo

Ganezh stretched his new body, testing its limitations. These corporeal shells were fragile and demanded more attention than he cared to give. He had grown annoyed at having to feed or water them and often neglected the procedures. This tended to dispatch a shell more frequently, true, but there were may more at his disposal. Still. . .

He sighed, feeling deeply the old familiar urges to change his surroundings. Without stimulation, his kind atrophied, became placid. He sneered, disgust for his disinherited race filling him. Let them seek their puny peace! He would not be a part of it. The ancient ways of the hunt, capture and ultimately the kill, were his ways; he would not forsake them. But the eons had crept by more and more slowly as he traveled from one galaxy to another, seeking worthy prey. So far he had found none, though once in a while he would come across an interesting creature such as the one he harbored here on the Orion ship. But he was growing weary of this one, too. Surreptitiously Ganezh had probed its mind as it lost consciousness, fever from the wound causing it to sleep a great deal. If anything, its thoughts were more scrambled in the unconscious state than when awake, as if they were broken off in countless places. Every avenue he pursued to find what it was hiding ended abruptly or made illogical turns into other thought patterns, until he halted with weariness and boredom. It served all the more to help him decide to tell Rriendal he was leaving. No matter now that the gift he would leave behind was no more than a tool to the Orions. Silly insects! He knew all too well what it would do to the peoples they used it on, and eventually to their own kind, fueled by their petty lusts and greed. In his embittered mind, however, he could not see that the same depravity had utterly destroyed him.

Ganezh approached the cell door and looked at the prisoner who, as was usual of late, lay unconscious on the floor. He touched the human's mind and found the expected – utter confusion, growing daily since the attempted suicide. Briefly he toyed with crushing it as it slept, then reprimanded himself for considering a near-merciful act toward the creature. He shuddered with self-contempt, a strange sound hissing between his clenched Orion teeth. This was too much like the race he had left behind, whose pacifist behavior embarrassed and disgusted him. Yes, it was time to leave this subjugated, predictable galaxy, and seek out another.

For the last time, he touched the human's mind. _So, you sought escape through death. That is one luxury you will not have, little one._ The human did not move, but Ganezh was past caring. Soon it would seek escape from a worse nightmare, and find none.

An unlucky Orion crew member happened to round the corner with Faal's water bucket and Ganezh seized him, speaking aloud in his impulsiveness. "You will take this human to the containment complex on the third asteroid to join my other pets. He is _not_ to be killed, and he is _never_ to be released. You will carry these orders to Rriendal to pass on to his superiors, with the understanding that my wrath is never far away. Do you comprehend me?" he hissed.

The Orion nodded his head vigorously, clamping off his secondary air supply, and scurried away. That had been close one – when Ganezh grabbed him he thought he was to be the next body host. As he moved further from the holding cell, he relaxed with the realization that he would live another day. Opening the sealed air passage, the Orion's sequi-glottis began to vibrate intensely, and the corridor echoed with the trilling sound of alien laughter.

ooOOoo

"Of all the. . .well, that sure beats it."

Spock looked up from the hardcopy lying on his desk. McCoy sat across from him, coffee in hand, fanning himself in the Vulcan atmosphere maintained in Spock's cabin on the _Enterprise_.

"You finally locate Jim at a San Francisco civiport and what does he do? He uses a stolen Federation VIP pass – a pass which, I might remind you, is unidentifiable because it's classified!"

"I doubt it if was stolen. If it were, the authorities and compscans would have detected it immediately. No doubt it was given to him to facilitate his mission."

"No doubt," McCoy grumbled. "Which leads us back to exactly nowhere, in case you haven't noticed. We still don't know who he's masquerading as."

"True, but I do know where he was going, at least on the first leg of his trip."

"You do?" McCoy rose from his seat and came around the desk to look over the captain's shoulder at the flimsy. Reacting to the best news he'd heard in days, he gripped the Vulcan's shoulder in excitement. Spock felt a slight trembling in the doctor's hand and accepted the contact with only minor shielding.

"He had to log a primary destination, even with the ID, and indicated he was en route to the fourth quadrant, which harbors little more than petty colonies, pleasure planets, and uncharted asteroid belts."

McCoy's exuberance faded a bit. "The fourth quadrant. That really narrows it down, doesn't it? We could spend the next ten years looking for Jim and still never find him."

"Agreed, the odds of locating the captain without further information are not good, Doctor." He closed his eyes – McCoy looked at him closely.

Spock was still dangerously near exhaustion, though he could have fooled any medi-scan, but Bones knew him well enough to read his fatigue. His voice was gentle as his grip on the Vulcan's shoulder relaxed into an encouraging squeeze. "You've done all that's humanly possi. . .no, no. . ." He stuttered, abashed that even now, as he tried to comfort Spock, he fell into uncomfortable metaphors. "You've done all you can. Frankly, I didn't think we'd get this far." His voice faltered as the futility of their search seemed to crash around him, mocking him for his hope and optimism. He straightened abruptly and walked toward the cabin door.

"Bones."

Spock's use of the familiar name stopped McCoy like an invisible hand. He turned but did not speak, afraid he might say or do something inappropriate in front of his stoic friend. Spock rose from the desk and approached the doctor, an unreadable expression on his face.

"You are perhaps aware that the _Enterprise_ is departing space dock in thirty-six hours for training maneuvers."

"Yeah – I've kept up with dispatches. They're nowhere near the fourth quadrant, Spock."

Spock ignored McCoy's last statement. "As commanding officer, I have been made privy to classified information which could affect us any time before, during, or after our mission." Spock paused for effect, wishing to draw McCoy out of his depression.

It worked.

"Dammit, Spock, are you going to tell me or not?" McCoy recognized Spock's obvious attempt to irritate him and the reason underlying it. He felt his face muscles relax despite himself. "Or is your Chief Medical Officer allowed to hear it?"

"If I choose to disclose it. And I do," Spock continued as McCoy bristled. "It is simply this: due to irregular behavior in several areas of the fourth quadrant, we are on standby to proceed to that location upon notification by Starfleet."

"Do they give any explanation? Scuttlebutt is that there have been some terrorist raids in that area recently, but no evidence of invasion. Otherwise, the _Enterprise_ would never have dry-docked and all our tours would have been involuntarily extended."

"Starfleet contends there are vague rumors of an alien presence. Not the Orions," Spock explained as McCoy started to interrupt. "Their presence has been an irritation to the Federation, and even though we know they trade in the area, this may not directly involve them. There is _another_."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not at the moment. I have other departure duties which press me, and need to give the matter more thought. I will keep you apprised." Spock palmed the privacy key of his cabin door, motioning the doctor to precede him from the room. They made their farewells and McCoy watched the Vulcan move down the corridor toward a turbolift.

As his friend rounded the corner Bones turned back to the closed door of Spock's quarters. The Vulcan had reclaimed his old cabin, moving his things in just as they had been, including the heat, which was just as unbearable to the irascible physician as before. There was one thing different, however. The plate beside the door bore the words: _Capt. Spock_.

_They say change is inevitable, but it doesn't mean I have to like it, _McCoy pondered as he made his way to sickbay. He knew all too well that his Vulcan captain, if he were able to admit it, didn't like it either.

ooOOoo

Jonn lay in a hot, turbulent sea, its red waters rocking and battering him by turns, giving him no rest. He strove futilely to swim, but the currents were ever-changing, frenzied, as they took command of him and bore him ever further into oblivion. He was faintly aware of someone who struggled alongside him and, though unable to speak, seemed to attempt to communicate. He tried to look at the stranger, but the pounding behind his eyes blurred his vision, and he saw only distant outlines and colors which dissolved into each other.

Thirst was a constant companion. He attempted drinking the red water, but it was salty and bitter like blood, and he gagged on it. For a long time he tried to envision waterfalls, lakes and rivers, hoping the images would give him some respite, but he had lost the ability. His tortured mind could only center now, and protect, always protect. It had something to do with the stranger swimming near him, but he couldn't remember what it was. If only he could get away from this heavy, molten sea!

But the waves grew higher and more violent, engulfing him in their liquid fire.

ooOOoo

The Orion ship approached the asteroid belt lazily, once more under control of her commander, Rriendal. They were rid of Ganezh for now and, though almost afraid to admit it, Rriendal secretly believed they were rid of him for all time. He had recognized, through long years of slave-trading and other black market dealings, the alien's personality. It was a universal one: domineering and bloodthirsty, not undeserving of his admiration, but manifested a bit too prominently in this entity. They simply could not fight the alien's powerful, probing mind, and Rriendal disliked having to stand by and watch his crew used up and tossed aside like so much refuse. He smirked, he sequi-glottis thrumming quietly. One could never accuse him of pining over few lost crew, but it was going to cost a great deal of replace them. And now he must divert to the compound to drop off this baggage. . .

He looked at the human who lay sprawled on the floor and cursed all the arbiters of Dehlian for burdening him with the responsibility of delivering it alive. By the look of it, Rriendal wasn't sure it would live until they shuttled it down. The human was fevered, its clothing soaked with bodily secretions. That and other untended fluids added to the already unpleasant smell of humans, and Rriendal backed away in disgust.

He considered for a moment dumping the man into deep space. However, the nagging warning of Ganezh lurked at his shoulder and he decided it would be better for him if the human survived a little longer. He would not allow himself to think what lay ahead for the Terran and many other Federation prisoners who now inhabited the former slave colony – prisoners who were even now being subjected to the Mind-Developer device. He ordered medical personnel to give the prisoner a broad-spectrum antibiotic, overriding their protests that it could cause more harm than good, and returned to the bridge, prepared to put all this unpleasantness behind him once and for all.

The medic arrived with his equipment, immediately blocking out olfactory input, and looked around the little room with clinical disdain. Filthy! How did they expect him to help someone in these conditions? He knelt beside the human, motioning his aide to help him remove its clothing. The tunic was torn and stained, part of it having been ripped away by the man who had tried to clean the wound. Bits of cloth still clung to the festering puncture, and the whole area where the sick man lay was contaminated. The medic cursed vehemently, causing his aide to recoil in alarm, before angrily ordering two more aides on the scene to clean up the mess and move the patient. According to report, the human had been unconscious for two _r-tra _cycles, and had been unable to care for himself. He must be rehydrated immediately and given a protein complex intravenously. The medic growled, wondering if the human had any veins big enough to accommodate a needle intended for Orion physiology.

Well, he must do the best he can, but even that wouldn't be enough, because in two more cycles the human would be removed from his care and taken to that Dehlian-forsaken compound, where there were no medics.

_A waste of good effort_, he thought.

ooOOoo

Jonn woke slowly, finding himself in a dark, antiseptic room. A green face was swimming in the gloom above him.

"What's your name, human?"

Jonn heard the rasping voice echoing hollowly and cringed inwardly as, for a brief moment, he thought Ganezh had returned to torment him. But the voice grew clearer and the darkness dissipated until he widened his eyes to stare full into the face of the Orion medic. This one only had two eyes.

"You speak Standard – English."

"Are you surprised, human? Don't be. We know a great deal more about you than you think."

Jonn tensed, wondering just what Ganezh had discovered when he was unable to center. If he had penetrated the barriers. . . but no, when he reached inward, the Hidden One was still protected, still unseen. Even he, Jonn, couldn't see him anymore. The Orion must be referring to something else – his assumed identity, perhaps?

"You think you're the only merchant mishandled in this sector?" the medic continued. "Orions have dealt with every race, every species this side of the Great Barrier, _including_ humans, although the almighty Federation frowns on it. So you're no different from anyone else. No doubt you've run a little shy of regulations in your dealings from time to time. So do we."

"I'm aware of the reputation the Orions have built for themselves." Jonn paused, something nagging at him. "You speak Standard like a human."

"Why not? It's easier to infiltrate that way." The medic's thin lips drew back in the parody of a human smile.

Jonn's heart lurched. _Infiltration. It happened before – the Andorian imposter_. . . Too late! The unbidden memory from the Hidden One washed through his thoughts. He twisted in the restraining belts as the effort to abort the memory caused him excruciating pain. Damaged synapses and incomplete shielding arced like megawatts between broken conduits in his brain; he fought a losing battle against confusion and fear of being found out.

Faal continued to struggle, biting his lip until it drew blood in an effort to quench the unwelcome thought. He saw the medic reach for a hypo device and panicked, knowing if he were to be sedated now he would be unable to center – might reveal everything. Ganezh could not be far away, and then all would be lost. He fought with inhuman strength, fueled by fear, and managed to loosen the chest strap. Before the medic realized what had happened, Faal had worked one arm free and grabbed the neck of the Orion's tunic. Twisting the cloth around the medic's neck, Faal maintained a choke-hold while working on freeing the other arm. The exhilaration of suddenly being able to fight back strengthened him even more, and he was able to secure the hypo before the medic finally wrenched himself from the human's grasp.

They remained looking at one another for some seconds, the medic in a ready crouch and Jonn half-sitting on the diagnostic table. It was so quiet they could hear each other's breathing. Gradually, Jonn realized that the intrusion of the Hidden One was safely controlled again, and his temporary strength began to drain away like melting snow. The hand which held the hypo began to shake uncontrollably and the room dimmed around him. He was vaguely aware that the medic had taken the device away as the dimness thickened to black.

The last sound he heard before he passed out was a strange, low trilling. . .


	5. Chapter 4

Empty Spaces

Empty Spaces

Chapter Four

Sickbay was quiet. It's only patient had just left, a pert little ensign who had cracked a collarbone in the gym, mended and cautioned to take it slower the next time. She would soon have five years, after all, to perfect her expertise.

McCoy sighed as he filed the ensign's history disk away. _Five years_. Accepting this interim post before the fall refit was as good as a promise to sign on for the next mission once the ship had been cleared. He glanced around sickbay once more and walked into the office, heading for the liquor cabinet. Pouring himself a neat two fingers, he sat at the desk, contemplating what he had done to deserve any of this. He already knew the answer to that one – you didn't always deserve what you got from life; it just happened to you. Sometimes it was kind; sometimes it smacked you down and then smacked you again before you could get up. He wondered when one of those times would be one too many.

He hovered over his drink, not enjoying it, realizing he had poured it just to have something to do. Training missions weren't the most harrowing of experiences and, God forgive him, he often found himself smiling when he _was_ called upon to render medical assistance – a rare need these days. He looked at the chronometer, knowing it would tell him what it had a hundred times before – time was on his hands, and it was passing slowly. He looked a the empty chair across from him, remembering the man who had often occupied it, talking about the day's routine, using McCoy as a sounding block, sharing a drink and companionship.

_Jim._

McCoy forced himself to think of something else. Two weeks out of dry dock, the _Enterprise_ had been put through every exercise possible. Following specific orders from Starfleet, Spock commanded ship and crew in what was more like shakedown maneuvers than a training mission. Sulu and Scotty had worked together to test every stress point, push every limit, and try every maneuver possible – and a few that weren't. Ship's crew, supplemented with many green junior grade officers and crewmen, were tuned like a stringed instrument, ready for anything. In theory, anyway.

Spock, of course, was on the bridge during every test run, Lt. Chekov manning the science station excellently, if not a little self-consciously, in the Vulcan's place. A new navigator, Ensign Randall, having initially evidenced some natural nervousness, was handling her first deep-space bridge assignment with aplomb. On the whole, McCoy sensed the crew responded well to the new captain, despite the fact a veteran might slip occasionally and call him 'Mr. Spock'.

McCoy chewed his lip thoughtfully as he considered going to the bridge. After all, he was chief medical officer and had visited the bridge frequently during the first mission, keeping a keen eye on the people who were at the center of operating a big ship. They were the ones who underwent more stress, who were not only under the authority of the captain, but under his eye, too. The doctor shrugged unconsciously. He had already been up once today – Spock didn't need him peering over his shoulder.

The comm unit chirped, startling him. He hit the connection. "McCoy, here."

"Dr. McCoy," came Uhura's voice over the comm, "Captain Spock has requested you join him in the officers' briefing room in ten minutes."

"All right, Lieutenant," he replied. He closed the channel, tossed down the remainder of the drink, and threw the glass into the recycling unit. He did all this mechanically, his mind racing. Spock wouldn't call him to the briefing room unless something was up. He wanted to be waiting there when Spock arrived. . .

. . .and was smiling smugly as the doors slid open at precisely the designated time, admitting the Vulcan. "What kept you?"

Spock lowered his eyebrows in a close semblance of a frown. "This is an inappropriate time, Doctor, for your ill-advised humor."

McCoy's face reddened, but he bit off a return when he observed the Vulcan's trembling fingers manipulating the computer keyboard. Upon further observation, he noted the ramrod-straight spine, the paler than usual skin across the high cheekbones. If he had brought his scanner with him, he would have used it, but his attention was soon drawn to the monitor as Spock keyed in what appeared to be a classified code. The captain soon confirmed this.

"I have received a class one message from Starfleet Command, for my eyes only. I wanted you to see it."

"Me? I thought you said it was for your eyes only."

"You and I know what this message is. I merely wish to save the time it would require to relay the information to you second-hand. No doubt you would harangue me with questions which could be better answered by your viewing the message with me."

"Logical, I guess."

Spock did not reply, but turned the monitor so the doctor could observe it with him. Nogura's face soon filled the screen.

"Captain Spock, no doubt you are aware of the incidents which have occurred sporadically in the fourth quadrant. Most of them have been of such a minor extent as to warrant nothing more than local patrol cleanup. However, in recent months inside sources have reported strange behavior among the suspected Orion pirates – maneuvers and raids not typical of their species, such as the wanton destruction of the science vessel and Civibase. Since that time our inside sources have dried up, some great fear making them unwilling – or unable – to give us any further information. However, rumors have become more and more alarming, alleging that another entity has entered the quadrant, a _totally alien_ life form, like nothing ever reported or rumored in this galaxy. We may be dealing with something completely outside our sphere of experience. Our other – connection – had penetrated the trading circles to try to make contact with the Orions, who are allegedly under the influence of this alien. Unfortunately, we have lost contact with him, as well. . ."

Spock and McCoy exchanged glances.

". . .the Orions, meanwhile, seem to have maintained some of their normal underhanded routines, but there are rumors the alien, whether still in the quadrant or no, retains a strong influence over them in some unexplained way. The Federation is concerned that this new aggressiveness may be something which the Orions will embrace, upgrading them from a nuisance to a threat. We cannot, after all, forget the Babel incident. . ."

"No one will let us," grumbled McCoy.

". . .which remains a grim reminder that the Orions, if properly motivated, can represent a very real danger to the Federation colonies and diplomatic progress in general. We now have conclusive information that such a motivation exists, at least among some factions of the Orion people. Influential factions."

The admiral leaned forward. "Captain Spock, your orders are to proceed to the fourth quadrant and rendezvous with the _U.S.S. Aurelan._ Her commanding officer, Captain Fletcher, has the remainder of your orders. You will proceed to the coordinates which follow this transmission at best possible speed. And Captain. . ."

McCoy found himself leaning toward the monitor to understand the admiral's next words. "You are to make doubly certain you follow Captain Fletcher's sealed order to the letter. If we _are_ dealing with a powerful alien entity, we must not run the risk of an open confrontation – not yet." The admiral threw himself back in his chair, routinely rattling off his name, rank and station before closing the communication.

McCoy watched as Spock hailed Uhura, instructied her to acknowledge Nogura's transmission as received and understood, ordered Sulu to change heading to the new coordinates at maximum warp, then switched off the comm unit. The Vulcan steepled his slender fingers, resting elbows on the table, and cut his eyes toward the physician.

"We are on our way, Doctor."

"And not a moment too soon." Bones got up quickly and headed for the briefing room door. He felt suddenly that he had a million things to do in sickbay to get ready. But to get ready for what? He shot a parting glance at Spock, but the Vulcan sat unmoving at the table, his eyes locked onto something not in the room. McCoy turned and moved of down the corridor without another word.

Spock closed his eyes. His hands clenched slowly upon the table – the knuckles turning white as his head bowed over them. Slowly, he sat upright again, forcing his hands to relax. He stood, straightening his uniform with a jerk. _McCoy is right_, he thought, as he made his way to the bridge. _It isn't a moment too soon._

ooOOoo

The air was cold, damp. Compound ventilators barely kept the air breathable, much less warm. Cold vacuum sucked at what little heat remained, condensing the moisture against the ceiling of the invisible shield like low-lying clouds.

He lay on his back, arms pulled over his head and tied securely to a rod driven into the ground. His mind still reeled from the intrusion of their mind-device. Twice now he had been subjected to it. Like an inquisition, it had probed his thoughts, seeking his secrets. But the mind-discipline held sway against the device's tentative, preliminary examination. For now the Hidden One, and his memories, was safe.

There was not so much pain now, mentally or physically, because the numbness which began in his hands had spread up his arms nearly to the shoulders. He refused to think how long it would be before permanent nerve damage would set in. If only he could get something to drink, he might be able to sleep a little, but he had been denied the evening ration. Insubordination, they called it. _Unmitigated fear of the Ripper is more like it_, he thought.

He tried to find a more comfortable position, but his feet were bound to another stake and he must remain as he was for the night: cold, miserable, and achingly thirsty. He strove to forget his thirst, to concentrate on other things, but it nagged at him as it had before in the little room on the Orion ship. The sight of the water dispenser in the distance pulled at him like a magnet, though he was powerless to reach it. Again, as exhaustion took him and he fell into a restless doze, he could see a sweet-faced woman bending over him, offering him a drink. He almost recognized her; she was so _familiar_.

He tensed. She was the Hidden One's mother. If Ganezh found out about her or any of the others the Hidden One cared about, he would hold the key to his discovery. And if he were discovered. . .

McCoy groaned in his sleep.

_I don't know you anymore. You're nobody to me – you're a stranger!_

"I don't know you," McCoy murmured.

The lights in his cabin, triggered by his voice, came up slowly. McCoy struggled, trying to rise, and fell back against his pillow with a sharp cry. Cabin lights came on full and he opened his eyes, disoriented. As he realized where he was he began to shake uncontrollably, his breath coming in gasps. Suddenly he threw himself from the bunk and stumbled to the head, violently ill. It was some minutes before he found the strength to rinse out his mouth, and he looked dazedly at his pale reflection in the mirror above the sink. It stared back at him accusingly.

"What are you looking at?" he growled. The reflection wavered and transformed into Kirk's face: grim, dirty, the hazel eyes distracted and haunted.

McCoy stumbled backward and fled the tiny room, falling into a chair. Out of control, out of control! He sat there, breathing deeply, getting hold of himself. He glanced toward the head, wondering when he would get up the courage to look in that mirror again.

"When nature calls, dammit!" he growled again, getting angry now.

He was glad he was angry.

The chronometer bleeped and a pleasant female computer voice announced the hour and his pre-set wakeup call. McCoy's answer was less pleasant as he made his way to the shower.

ooOOoo

Spock knelt slowly upon the meditation stone. He breathed deeply, settling his weight properly in the higher gravity of his room, allowing his hands to find their own comfortable resting place. It was utterly quiet. Lights were dimmed almost to blackness, but as he entered the first level of the _forr t'al_, the objects in his room seemed to take on a red glow. _Satisfactory_.

As the Vulcan proceeded deeper into the cleansing discipline, he lost all awareness of the objects which surrounded him, his focus centering on memories, mind processes, synapses, conscious and unconscious thought. He must find a way to isolate the strident feelings he had begun to experience – thought patterns entirely separate from his own, yet emanating from him: patterns so strong that they threatened at any moment to erupt into spoken words. Uttered at the wrong moment, such words could serve to undermine the crew's confidence in him, and even to provide cause for Starfleet to remove him from command. That must never happen, for as surely as he knew his name was Spock, he knew his future was still inexorably tied to that of Jim Kirk. He had no idea how, or for how long, but that didn't really matter. What mattered now was cleansing himself of the strange thought patterns which hindered the search for his friend and captain.

The Vulcan found his hands had clenched. Meticulously, he forced each finger to open, uncurling them until his hands once again lay relaxed upon the stone. It would not do to let the purpose of this cleansing prohibit him from finding out what had been interfering with normal, logical function. Bowing his head, he entered the next level. . .

. . .and stood face-to-face with James T. Kirk.

ooOOoo

Spock blinked, not altogether surprised at this encounter, but somewhat taken aback by its almost corporeal incarnation.

_Spock_.

The captain lifted an eyebrow, interested in the fact that, although he could see a fully uniformed Kirk standing on an empty bridge, he could still firmly feel the meditation stone under him. The bridge and Kirk were embodiments of his mind. The decommissioned gold uniform his friend wore was further evidence of that. Yet Kirk was not a figment of his imagination, either. Years of telepathic/empathic communication with his commanding officer had taught Spock not to rely on logic alone, and more than once had the two men sensed each other's needs from far away. He could no more turn his back on these 'feelings' now than he could his new-found relationship with Sarek.

Spock looked upon the image of Kirk, who stood with his hands on his hips, smiling crookedly.

_Hello, Spock._

_Captain._

_You look surprised to see me._

_Perhaps, Captain, but not surprised that are communicating with me. I perceive now that you have been attempting to reach me for some time._

_Yes, but you're a busy man, Spock. You have your own command, now._

Spock glanced sharply at the man standing before him, looking for signs of jealousy or anger. Kirk had said many times over that Spock should have his own command, his own ship; however, if he had known it would be the _Enterprise_. . . Jim had placed his hands behind his back and was smiling at him with something like – was it _pride_?

_I wouldn't have it any other way, Mr. Spock._

_Indeed, Captain, I. . .thank you._

_Spock, I think I'm dying._

Those words brought the Vulcan up short – so abruptly, in fact, that he almost lost the fourth level and had to struggle for a few moments to re-establish the parameters.

_You – what gives you sufficient cause to believe that?_

_I'm trapped here, in my own mind. I used the kas-t'al, Spock, the technique you taught me after we left Organia. There's another personality, his sole responsibility to prevent my being found out._

Spock felt a tremor somewhere deep inside him. It was some moments before he could bring himself to reply. _That was most unwise._

_I knew it was a risk, but I had to be sure that, in the event I was captured, no one could get any information from me. There was an ulterior motive, too. _Kirk looked sheepish. _I wanted to come out of this without having my mind ripped away. I figured if the Klingons had such nasty devices, and even some of our penal colonies, chances were good the Orions had them, too._

_Do you believe you have made contact with Orions, Jim?_ Spock saw his C.O. falter, as if suddenly weary, and take a step back. The communication established in the _forr t'al_ wavered briefly, then stabilized. It was then Spock realized that the answers he sought may very well be the catalyst which could break off the tenuous communication altogether.

_I don't know about Orions. What I mean is, I don't know if I ever made contact. _The image of Kirk faded, the movement of his hand to his head strobing in slow-motion. _The last thing I remember is being pulled into an alien ship, knowing it was probably Orion, but having a sense of something more alien outside my ship's hull. Then it was as if I were under water. I couldn't breathe – everything was in slow motion. Things have been increasingly vague for me since that time._

Spock reached out toward the human, though he knew there could be no physical contact. He sensed the confusion in Kirk and realized suddenly, with horror, that what he man meant by 'dying' was that he was losing himself, his very essence, to the _kas t'al _ personality who now controlled not only his body, but his waking thoughts.

_Dr. McCoy and I have reason to believe that you, in your other personality, have indeed come in contact with the Orions at the very least, and perhaps something else. We have both, in our own way, sensed your distress, and have tried to locate you. Can you help us find you?_

_No, I – I don't know where I am._ Kirk's voice grew fainter; weariness etched his face. _I keep trying to get out, but the more I push, the more I'm pushed back._

_Jim, I have been given orders to investigate the Orion incidents, and Dr. McCoy agrees with me that you are in that vicinity. You are not to concern yourself with that at the moment, however. You must concentrate on Jim Kirk – who he is, what he is. If it drains you to struggle, cease to do so. When I have located you, I will assist you to return._

_You realize what that will mean, Spock?_

_I do._

_It could kill you. Or leave you mindless, worse than death._

_I am aware of the possibilities, Captain._

_Spock._

_Yes, Jim?_

_Despite my alter-personality's efforts, there is something here that intrudes on my memories – memories of people I care about, people I love. It's almost as if something's trying to discover the deepest part of me and use it to hurt them: my family, my friends. Spock, I. . ._ The human swallowed hard. _I want to end this, Spock. I want to come home._

The tone of Kirk's voice sliced the Vulcan officer like knives as emotions hit him from all sides – Kirk's emotions: strong, violent.

_We are making our way toward you now with all due haste, Captain_, he managed to say, hoping to reassure Kirk. _But there is one thing you might be able to tell me which would make our search infinitely easier._

_If I can._

_What is your super-personality's name?_

_It's. . ._

Spock saw the image fade even more, the captain's knees buckling as he struggled. Gradually, the image cleared, though it had become quite transparent. Jim strove to answer.

_His name is. . ._

ooOOoo

". . .Jonn Faal, Doctor. When we find him, we will have found the captain."

McCoy rocked on his heels, his back to the Vulcan, staring at an obscure reflection in the locked equipment cabinet. Something in him refused to hope, to anticipate having Kirk back on the ship once more. It had happened too many times these last few weeks, only to fall again and again under the heel of dead ends and false leads. The orders to go to quadrant four were the final blow. Even if they did manage to get close to Jim, Starfleet had already made it plain they weren't to do anything – their hands were tied.

The incessant dreams didn't help either, worsening every night as he found himself in the compound over and over again: helpless to escape, subject to the authority of the unit. There were unpleasant incorporeal sensations, and an uncanny sense that he was being watched, but mentally, as though his thoughts could be discerned at will. Worse were the feelings of hopelessness which overwhelmed McCoy each time he dreamed, often leaving him drained and in tears, or yelling in fear and rage, when he finally managed to struggle awake.

No, he couldn't allow himself to hope again – it just hurt too damn much.

Spock sensed the physician's difficulty, alarming himself that he had allowed shields to lower so much over the course of days as to pick this up from McCoy, of all people. The Vulcan had been so preoccupied with controlling Kirk's cries for help he had not fully comprehended the doctor's own battle. Now this battle was blatantly evident.

He lay a long-fingered hand on the doctor's shoulder and guided him gently to a nearby chair. Placing himself in another chair opposite McCoy, he waited patiently until the man made an effort to reign in, lifting reddened eyes to look at his commanding officer.

"So it seems, Doctor, that Jim has been attempting to communicate with you, too."

"He what?"

"The dreams. You didn't' tell me you were still having them."

"What would have been the point? You'd have just interpreted them in some way, and we would think we were really making progress only to find out that we were wrong or barking up the wrong tree - again."

Spock ignored the human metaphor; bantering between the two officers had ceased almost entirely – only a semblance of it was maintained whenever the two of them happened to be seen together in public – it simply took too much energy. He was beginning to see that the extent McCoy had been attempting to control was no less than his own.

"Consider it, Doctor. We are going into an area where the odds are favored roughly 9,436.8 to one that Jim is there. We know his undercover name and his assumed occupation, which reduces the odds against his being found dramatically."

"Reduces it, yes. But you haven't considered the final picture. He's either found, or he isn't found. He's either alive, or he isn't alive, sane or insane. Those are the real odds, the way I see 'em. Want to quote me some more?" McCoy threw this last cryptic remark over his shoulder as he got up from the chair.

"McCoy, we must talk. If you insist on going back to your room without. . ."

The doctor stopped in the open door, his back to the Vulcan. "There's no point in talking. You handle your problems your way and leave me alone to handle mine."

"Doctor, this is illogical. These dreams, these nightmares. . ."

McCoy whirled, his face flushing red. "What the hell do you know about nightmares, Spock? You can just disappear behind that Vulcan mask called logic and look down your nose at the rest of us who have to deal with such things."

Spock tensed. Bones saw it, and the final threads of control shredded. He began to tremble, anger spilling over into fury, herded frustration breaking the dam into full-bent rage. Tears formed in his eyes and ran down his face, but he was not crying. He stalked back into the room, all his wrath focused on Spock as he confronted him, his face only inches from the other officer's.

"Doctor, you will please move away." The Vulcan's voice was nearly a whisper, rock steady and ominous.

"Oh, right, I forgot, mustn't touch the Vulcan. 'Don't shake a Vulcan's hand, Doctor, they don't like it.' 'Don't move in on their space or they'll have to shield.' Well, what about how _I_ feel? You ever think about that, Spock, huh?' The doctor's index finger reached out and poked the Vulcan pointedly in the sternum.

"Dr. McCoy. . .please. . ." The former steadiness altered subtly, changing. . .

"So don't feel like you've got to pretend to be concerned over any of this, Spock. I'm dispensable, after all. Hell, _Jim's_ dispensable. Kinda convenient, wouldn't you say?" he asked, jabbing his finger into Spock's chest with each phrase, knowing his words were hurtful, hateful, but unable to prevent them from tumbling out. They were the refuse of a tortured mind that simply could not cope any longer.

The Vulcan's eyes widened under lowered brows, and before McCoy knew what had hit him Spock had grabbed his shoulders and slammed him into the bulkhead with such force that he felt something snap. He slid slowly down the wall, the air knocked from his lungs, and looked up through spinning vision at the approaching Vulcan. He coughed weakly and realized he wasn't going to be able to get up.

Blackness closed around him.

ooOOoo

He woke up as they moved from the empty corridor into a turbolift, realizing he was resting in the Vulcan's arms. McCoy's first thought was that it was a good thing it was a late hour. His first instinct was to struggle to be put down, but blurred vision and the stabbing pain in his back told him he had better stay put. Perhaps it was the dizziness or latent shock, but he found it almost pleasant to be carried this way, like a child in its parent's arms. _I _must_ be injured_, he fussed inwardly, embarrassed to be thinking like this. If the Vulcan picked up on the thought, however, he showed no sign of it. Spock's features were as cold and immobile as they had been the first time the human and Vulcan had met, years ago. Only now McCoy knew all too well, by the physical evidence of his own injury, that Spock was not controlled, only covering. That meant only one thing to the physician: Spock needed his help, but he had been unable to give it until now.

"If it isn't too late," he grunted, even that small effort causing pain.

"Don't talk," Spock said tersely, concentrating on the levels as they flashed on-screen.

McCoy took a shallow breath. "I should've seen you were in trouble, Spock, only. . . only I was too damned preoccupied with. . .myself."

"You are not to concern yourself with my well-being. At the moment yours is if primary importance.

"Cut it out. . ." McCoy flinched, gasping, and reminded himself not to breathe deeply. "I'm all right. Nothing a pill and some. . .plaster won't take care of." He looked directly at his commanding officer. "Spock, I'm sorry."

"Unnecessary, Dr. McCoy. You were merely giving vent to a human, illogical. . ."

"Illogical, hell!" interrupted McCoy. "You listen to. . .to me! You pointy-eared hard. . .head. . ." Spock ignored the gasping tirade as he carried the human out through the turbolift door and down the deserted corridor toward sickbay, but that didn't stop the doctor. "What I just experienced and what. . .you just experienced is the result of. . .of a series of contacts, or. . .emanations, whatever you want to. . .to call 'em."

Spock entered sickbay and was met by M'Benga, who assisted with placing McCoy on the diagnostic bed. As he ran the mediscan over the human, M'Benga noticed the sudden silence of the two officers who had come into the room rather loudly seconds before. Sensing their need to continue the conversation, and confirming McCoy's own diagnosis of nothing worse than a couple of cracked ribs, he busied himself in the other room far longer than was necessary. He noticed a lot of quiet, though fervent talk before the opening and closing of the sickbay doors signaled an end to the conversation. Coming back into the room, M'Benga found a pensive McCoy who submitted to his ministrations without a murmur or caustic remark. The work finished and McCoy settled comfortably under mild sedation, M'Benga left him. It was obvious the man needed to be alone.

ooOOoo

"Spock, about last night. . ."

"I have indicated apologies are unnecessary, Doctor. My own behavior and your subsequent injury are inexcusable. I allowed myself to react. . ."

"For God's sake, it's _me_ you're talking to, remember? Don't you think I saw through that Vulcan guise long ago? I'm the ship's doctor, in case you've forgotten, and I did a follow-up on Jim's assorted bruises after a certain little visit to Omicron Ceti III. I had to pry it out of him, but he finally told me what he had to do to you to get you free of the spores' effects."

"I fail to see what that has to do with. . ."

"Oh, shut up! Let me finish. It's your human half, Spock. You deny it because it interferes with your Vulcan logic. But did you ever consider the possibility that your Vulcan half just might be interfering with your _human_ functions? The innate, physiological, psychological need to _feel_? Why else would it take violent, uncontrolled emotions to get to you, to bring you to a place where you can simply let go? Look at you now – admit it, are you struggling as much as you were last night to keep control? I can see it in your face, man, in your posture. Come on, Spock! For once, will you just _admit_ it?"

Spock stared thoughtfully at a bulkhead, arms crossed. He slowly uncrossed them before swiveling his chair to face McCoy directly.

"There is some accuracy in your last statement, in that I do have a more distinct grip on reality this morning. Whether that is tied directly to my – impropriety – last night, is debatable. However, before you jump to incorrect conclusions," he hastened, raisin a hand to stop McCoy's inchoate reply, "I have also noted, over the years, that humans who have accepted their emotions as an inborn trait are more suited for controlling them, even adapting them to their purpose. Although the emotions are very much in evidence, they do not become the master of that individual. And that, I perceive, is healthy – for humans."

"But not healthy for Vulcans, I take it." McCoy frowned, slouching in his chair. "Which brings us right back to where we were before – nowhere."

"Untrue. You have given me something to think about. And I _will_ think about it."

McCoy looked into the Vulcan's eyes and saw the frankness there. It spoke volumes – things the man could never bring himself to say verbally to a human, especially McCoy – and it was enough. He nodded, the gesture both accepting Spock's promise and dismissing the subject.

"I've been going over my dreams, trying to dig some sense out of them, to see if Jim is trying to communicate with me directly, or whether I'm just picking up on an emotional aura. I have to confess the more I try to make order of the puzzle, the more jumbled it becomes. I'm not psionic and, frankly, this stuff just feels strange to me."

"Perhaps I can shed some light on that. The captain is deep in the mind discipline known on Vulcan as the _kas t'al_, a discipline originally used in pre-history to enable captured members of warring tribes to block out whole sections of memory, to subliminate identities, in order to protect the other clan members. I – felt it necessary to teach Jim the rudiments of this discipline after I experienced the mind-sifter on Organia. Kor would have used it on the captain if circumstances had permitted it. At the time, he could not have endured it."

"I remember reading about the mind-sifter in the log. I had no idea a human could learn such a discipline."

"After a fashion, and not without help. I melded my mind with his in order to circumnavigate the illogical barriers his human subconscious would have precipitated, and a certain level of _kas t'al_ was obtained. I did not realize he might choose to pursue it farther."

"Far enough to almost obliterate his own persona, if I understand what you told me about your recent mental contact with him."

"Yes. The danger is two-fold: in melding with him, I could not help but impart to him a certain element of the Vulcan group consciousness. This consciousness spans the centuries and is controlled by logic and the lack of emotion; however, it is strong in each of us. In a human, the drive to protect his 'clan' would be overwhelming. Secondly, he has gone past the levels I taught him, being those which would enable him to pretend ignorance on the subject for which he might be interrogated. I thought it was nothing more than the captain's unfailing curiosity which initiated his questions about how far the discipline could be taken. I was wrong, evidently."

"Happens to the best of us, Spock," said McCoy, gently, taking no pleasure in the fact that Spock was admitting to error. "You think he's penetrated levels from which he might not be able to withdraw?"

"Precisely. Like the mouse in a maze, it is easy enough to get in, but profoundly more difficult to escape. The captain has therefore found himself 'lost' in this maze of the Faal persona. And there is more. Faal has experienced mental trauma of some kind – an extreme mind-altering event. I perceive that in his attempt to protect Jim, he has all but cut off the captain's ability to assert himself. Stripped of that ability – that is, a physical expression of his needs, Jim must seek help in one of the few ways left to him."

McCoy's eyes widened in understanding. "Emotionally."

"To _you_ in particular, Doctor, since you are his human friend. Call it friendship, the touching of souls – the terms are irrelevant. I believe you are sensing what the captain is experiencing on the – to use your vernacular – 'gut level'. The _kas t'al_ has no doubt increased Jim's ability to reach you in this capacity."

"You're telling me I'm not going crazy, then? When I see his face in my mirror, or dream that I'm Jim _himself_, lying in some filthy compound somewhere?"

"No. You are simply a receiver, a conduit, if you will. The only insanity could be how you deal with it."

"That brings us to you, Spock. This encounter you had with Jim while you were in that mind-cleaning thing. . ."

"The _forr t'al_."

"Yeah, that. This encounter isn't the only thing that's been bugging you. You've been tightly controlled, but I've seen you physically struggle with yourself, moving your lips, like you were memorizing lines in a play. Initially I passed it off as some sort of meditation, but it grew more noticeable over time. Even the regular bridge crew were picking up on it."

"I realized it was occurring, which made my predicament all the more difficult. Unfortunately, it was my misunderstanding of what was happening which nearly caused my undoing – and yours."

McCoy looked at him, puzzled, unable to follow Spock's line of thought.

"Bear with me, please. I shall endeavor to explain something to you which I am only beginning to comprehend myself. Perhaps it was partly due to the effects of the _kas t'al_. And – perhaps it is because I was loath to acknowledge my own feelings in the matter. In any event, I found myself thinking in terms of the captain's own words – phrases, sentences, whole paragraphs verbatim. Initially they were from memory, or at least they seemed to be, but soon they began to take on a life of their own. I barely caught myself time and again before actually verbalizing them. You must understand, Doctor, that these would have been said exactly the way the captain would have said them, with tone, inflection, body english, _as if I had become possessed of James Kirk_."

"Good God! That had to stink! No one likes to feel he's lost control of himself; no wonder you. . ."

"You begin to comprehend what I was dealing with. To lose control of one's emotions is cardinal for a Vulcan; to lose control of one's _self_. . ."

"I think I see. So you tried to control even that, not realizing it was Jim's attempt to communicate."

"Exactly. Only when I entered the _forr t'al_ to exorcise this demon, if you will, did I discover the true nature of the interference. Jim was attempting to reach me through the bond which had formed between us over the years – thought to thought, mind to mind. However, the mental confusion he found himself in was encumbering, to day the least, and hindered him from communicating in the manner to which we were both accustomed. I – simply did not recognize him."

"Busy signal," McCoy muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" queried Spock, the uplifted eyebrow reminiscent of bygone days.

"I'll explain later. Look, I'll be honest with you. Even after you've explained what my dreams mean, it's hard for me, humanly speaking, to cope with them. They're so real, you see. I don't know if you experience dreams in the same way humans do, Spock, but they can be just as tangible as the chair I'm sitting in, and we react to them just as we do in the physical world. Adrenaline levels soar, we sweat, the heart rate increases – it's _real_ to us, until we wake up and discover it's not real. And even then, the false reality of the experience hangs on, nagging us, making us wonder 'did it happen or didn't it'. It's not logical, but it is a fact." McCoy sighed audibly, turning a hand palm up in a mute appeal for the Vulcan's understanding. "What I'm trying to say is, even though I _know_ that it's a form of communication, my instincts tell me I'm going crazy and that the world I knew longer exists."

"An interesting dilemma, and I am not unsympathetic." McCoy's eyebrows shot up at this statement and he was, for the moment, speechless.

"I, too, am experiencing a similar difficulty in that, as you said, though I _understand_ the strong communication patterns I receive from the captain and their tendency to formulate themselves within my own psyche, the sense of being overwhelmed by them is – unnerving. It is this perception that I am within two worlds at the same time that can very well lose me my command, Doctor." He looked soberly at the surgeon. "That must not happen."

"So what are we going to do? We can't go running to everybody and ask them to 'help us, please, we're going just a little bit nuts.'"

"Certainly not. Disclosure of any kind would be tantamount to condemning Jim to death."

"So I ask it again. What do we do?"

"We help each other." Spock leaned across the desk and deliberately put his hand over McCoy's, the shock of which rendered the doctor immobile. "I am able to shield with only minimal success if I am to control the captain's communication. To attempt to shield further would not only destabilize the _forr t'al_ level I have maintained, but endanger the link itself. Therefore I am not able. . ." He looked down at his hand which covered the doctor's and withdrew it into his lap. ". . .to fully cope with – with any human emotions I may find within myself. The fact that I am even able to tell you these things is an example of my inability to control." He crossed his arms. "I need you to tell me when you perceive me to be moving in parameters outside what the crew would deem normal. I, in turn, will be sounding-board for your recurring dreams. You must never feel you are offending me by expressing them to me in order to rid yourself of the immediate overpowering emotions they, no doubt, will generate."

"You – want me to tell you when you're acting too much like a human?"

"A _certain_ human, Dr. McCoy, one with whom we are both well-acquainted."

"Perhaps better acquainted than we ever realized, eh, Spock?"

"Would you have it any other way?" The resonant voice held a hint of affectionate humor.

_When hell freezes over_, McCoy thought, but said simply, "No, Spock, I wouldn't have it any other way."


	6. Chapter 5

Empty Spaces

Empty Spaces

Chapter Five

Several tattered forms huddled close to conserve what body heat their shivering bodies could produce. The night condensation, though not enough to gather into raindrops, hung low in scattered clouds of fog and spun mists from the sleeping prisoners with every breath. The strange beauty of the night was lost on them, however, as they slept the sleep of exhaustion.

Jonn shifted position, inching away from the crawling cold which sniggled its way down his back. As he made contact with the man behind, however, a little warmth found its way between his shoulder blades, and he relaxed. His unconscious mind made the connection between warmth and comfort, and a dream of warm covers and clean sheets enveloped him. Soon the morning sun would come sparkling in his window, carrying with it the brightness of the new-fallen snow, but he was safe in his bed, Sam's body heat next to him a perfect oven. But sometimes Sam flopped onto his side, crushing him to the edge of the bed, smothering him just as he was now.

Jonn pushed against the man's arm that had fallen across his shoulder and chest. "Sam, will you move over, for Pete's sake!"

But the arm was not Sam's, and the man was not asleep. Jonn looked up into the eyes of Garal – the compound Commanding Officer, who had been watching him closely since the day he had been made prisoner – watching with a look that spoke of something more than the interest of command.

"You make a noise, Earther, and I'll tear your throat out."

The hulking Orion heaved his body onto Jonn's, his forearm across the human's throat, cutting off his air supply so that it was impossible to cry out. Jonn struggled against the well-fed commander's strength but was unable to throw him off. The Orion leaned closer, breathing fetid air into Jonn's face, putting pressure against his windpipe until he began to see stars. With his free hand, Garal began to caress Jonn's face, his shoulder, groping. . .

With desperate strength, Faal brought his knee up into the Orion's groin and he roared with pain. Taking advantage of Garal's loosened grip, Jonn squirmed from his grasp and scrambled up.

By this time the whole compound was awake, floodlights cutting the fog like knives. The Orion, furious that the human had successfully fought him off, marched over to Faal and struck him a tremendous blow across the side of his head. The human crumpled and did not move.

Garal stood over the still form. Such weaklings, these humans! But such tempting lovelies, too. Especially this one, since they had received orders not to injure him.

He tied the unconscious human's hands together and had his guards swing him from a rope attached to a horizontal bar designed for such punishment. He wouldn't injure him – not much, the Orion told himself. He only wanted to play with him for awhile, like a hunter animal sometimes toys with its meal. After all, it made the meal so much more delicious. . .

ooOOoo

The _Enterprise_ closed on the coordinates Nogura had provided Spock and tactical was tracking the yet unseen _U.S.S. Aurelan_ which approached the same rendezvous point. No communication had been made as yet, orders stating that Spock was to board the science vessel for further instructions.

"All this cloak-and-dagger stuff!" grumbled McCoy. "It ain't human."

Spock swiveled to get a better view of the physician who stood by his side on the bridge. "You are right," he agreed, raising an eyebrow at the human's obvious surprise. "It isn't human. It is Federation."

"Amen to that."

Several well-hidden smiles erupted over the bridge at this exchange between the captain and chief medical officer. Sulu didn't know just what part the undisclosed message from Starfleet played in the change that had come over his C.O. and ship's doctor, but he did know their collective mood had lightened. Spock and McCoy shared some secret, that was certain, but it _fit_. McCoy's genuine crustiness had returned – the banter between the two men had resumed – ship's morale took a sharp upswing.

Sulu glanced over to navigation, grinning at Chekov, who was temporarily filling in for Ensign Randall while she took a break. _Like old times_. There was a sense of – he didn't know what exactly, but he'd felt it many times before while Kirk was at the helm. Something was going to happen, and it excited him. He felt like a cadet on a training mission, with drills thrown at him at any hour of day or night. For the fourth time in as many minutes, he checked his instruments.

"Coming within visual range of the _Aurelan_, Keptain," announced Chekov, himself sensing a strange exhilaration. The sight of the science vessel, first as a silver disc and then a swiftly enlarging ship filling the screen strangely moved the Russian. To his surprise, he had to fight to keep back the tears.

"Ms. Uhura, please notify Captain Fletcher that I am prepared to beam aboard at the designated time. Dr. McCoy shall accompany me. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."

"Aye, sir."

Spock and McCoy left the bridge together. Their absence did not lessen the anticipation which hovered over the bridge like smoke.

Sulu checked his instruments as the _Enterprise_ held at station-keeping before looking toward Chekov. Uhura, finished with the captain's message, stepped down to the helm, leaning on the back of Sulu's chair. Both men glanced up at her.

"Bets, gentlemen?"

"You mean whether it's Klingons this time? Or Romulans?" asked Sulu, grinning.

"Or Harry Mudd?" asked Uhura, devilment lighting her eyes.

"Or little furry pets?" queried Chekov, teasing Uhura in turn.

Sobering, Sulu looked over his shoulder at the pristine science vessel hanging before them in space. "Whatever it is, we all feel it. I. . ." he trailed off.

"Just like old times," Chekov added, echoing Sulu's earlier thought, not quite comfortable with some of the memories that came flooding back of the five-year mission.

"I suppose," mused Uhura, frowning now. "Nothing changes, I guess. I'm just as nervous now as I was then."

ooOOoo

The captain and first officer of the _Aurelan_ sat across from McCoy and Spock in the science vessel's officers lounge, the _Enterprise_ in plain view through an observation port. The briefing had been at best unsatisfactory, even ridiculous. Up to now Leonard McCoy had kept his mouth shut through most of the briefing, which amounted to little more than a fabricated story to convince Spock the xeno-anthropologists aboard needed a constellation-class starcruiser to mother-hen them while they observed the movements of some motley group of space traders. McCoy didn't doubt for a moment that the scientists were in earnest – they simply couldn't see past their immediate mission. Talk about near-sighted. . .

He bit his tongue as Fletcher's exec outlined their concerns that the supposed Orions may have been influenced by an alien presence, McCoy silently noting they weren't hearing anything Nogura hadn't already told them; he crossed his arms as Spock maintained his Vulcan cool, determined the captain wouldn't be embarrassed by his human companion. But as the briefing concluded and he realized that there _were _no further orders – that they were to remain here, shadowing the _Aurelan_, so close to Kirk they could all feel it and yet forbidden to lift a finger – well, as he described it later in his personal log, 'I felt it coming.'

"You'll pardon me, Captain Fletcher, ma'am, but I don't see why Starfleet has had us come across half the galaxy to lollygag around watching you take samples. I mean, the _Enterprise_ is an exploration vessel, not a bodyguard!"

"Whether you understand it or not, Dr. McCoy, is not exactly relevant here," said Fletcher, turning to look at the doctor. She had seen something brewing in those smoldering blue eyes and was frankly surprised he had managed to keep silent this long. "I have my orders – you have yours. If you have a problem with that, perhaps you should discuss it with Captain Spock."

Bones was well-used to being snapped at by Kirk, or taken down a human peg or two by Spock, and he accepted it as part of the job and part of honing the rough edges of their friendships, but it was a bit much to be reproved by this upstart who couldn't' have had her captain's braid very long. In the mood he was in, she didn't have a chance anyway.

"You're damn well right I have a problem with it, Captain! I'm no line officer, but I sure as hell have been with Starfleet long enough to know when I'm being handed a load of road-apples! Starfleet may well have you on a legitimate mission, judging by the events which have taken place here recently, but I don't believe for one moment. . ."

"Doctor." The Vulcan's voice was low and controlled.

McCoy jerked his eyes to Spock and felt the anger literally drain from him as he saw the panic behind the stoic eyes. The tightly clasped hands were a silent plea for McCoy to curb his outrage and get them safely back to the _Enterprise_. The doctor exhaled loudly and stood. "I'm sorry, Captain Fletcher. I was out of line. We've been remarkably accident-free, even with a ship full of new personnel."

"I understand, Doctor. Perhaps you would care to come assist with our observations; that is, if your captain can spare you." She cast a sidelong glance at the Vulcan who, in her eyes, was more silent than any she had ever met, though they were few. Why did she feel as though the physician were _protecting_ him?

"I'll – try to do that, Captain, thank you," McCoy said, almost stuttering with anxiety. If he didn't get Spock back to his quarters they were all liable to observe the man's impending collapse.

Spock stood slowly, murmuring a correct farewell, and with McCoy close by made first the interminable trip to the transporter room and then the subsequent one to the doctor's office. Spock threw himself into a chair and watched disinterestedly as Bones hurriedly keyed a lock on the door and played the scanner over him.

Grunting in satisfaction that the captain's vital signs were within normal ranges, McCoy leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, scowling for some seconds at his silent companion. It soon became apparent that Spock was not going to talk.

"You mind telling me what that was all about? I thought you were going to faint over there."

Spock slowly straightened in his chair, the panicked look retreating behind a quieter gaze. But McCoy would not so soon forget that look, notwithstanding Spock's semblance of composure.

"Look, you told me to tell you when you reacted like a human being. Well, what I just observed a few minutes ago was the nearest thing to a _human_ state of collapse I've ever seen."

Spock stood hesitantly to his feet, waving off the physician's offer of help, and began to pace the room, hands clasped behind him. McCoy recognized that characteristic habit immediately, a habit that was _not_ Spock's, but he thought it best not to bring it to the Vulcan's attention just then. "I had a sense of displacement on the _Aurelan_, as if Jim broke through his alter-ego momentarily in a dream-state. It was only for a second or two, before something interrupted it. Whatever it was, it was of such a nature that the alter-ego recoiled in revulsion."

"From the dream? I don't understand, Spock."

"Neither do I. What I am relating to you is confusing at best. The alter-ego. . ."

"Just call him Jonn – it'd be easier."

Spock nodded distractedly as he resumed his seat. "In any event, Jonn, who has managed to keep Jim's persona totally buried, seems to have a problem with his control when asleep. He dreams, Doctor. But they are James T. Kirk's dreams."

"You say something interrupted the dream. What was it – could you tell? Was Jonn's personality dominant when Jim's dream ended?"

Spock steepled his hands, resting elbows on knees. "Yes, to both questions. I believe the captain was being attacked."

"Attacked!" It was McCoy's turn to stand up. "Was he injured?"

"It was not that kind of attack. I believe the assailant was trying to molest him."

"What – _molest_ him! You mean sexually?" he sputtered, his face reddening. "Why that – that son of a bitch! If I ever get my hands. . ."

"Calm yourself, Doctor. Though the episode was brief, I sensed Jim's reaction to it. Though the attack was overtly sexual, it was ultimately a show of power on the part of his attacker. That aside, whatever has happened to Jim, our primary duty is to remove him from his confinement. Any wounds – all wounds – will have to be tended the best way possible until we get him safely away."

Bones found his heart racing in fury, his hands clenched in futile rage. If he didn't watch it he was going to find himself in sickbay. Glancing at the Vulcan, whose stoic control hid nothing, McCoy knew they both had a few wounds of their own. Who would bind _those_, he wondered.

Spock remained in McCoy's office for several minutes until he was confident he could safely go about his duties. McCoy stared at the closed door until he found his eyes burning, a complaint due to lack of sleep. He sat at his desk, toying with a few medical reports which awaited his attention, then threw down the stylus, plopped both feet on the desk, and leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed. In just a few minutes the room echoed with the nasal strains of heavy sleep. Immediately he began to dream.

He was in the compound again, in broad daylight, and the sweltering humidity wrapped itself around him like wet cotton. Breathing was difficult with all his weight suspended from his bound hands – he had stopped trying to pull himself up hours ago. Shallow breathing alone was possible in that position – the numbness in his legs and blurred vision evidenced poor pulmonary function. Each breath was a fight to draw enough air to attempt the next one – the whole world centered entirely, utterly on sucking the air into his lungs and pushing it out again.

A pair of feet walked into his line of vision, but he paid them no attention. _Breathe_. A rough hand grabbed a shock of hair and jerked his head up, forcing him to look into the Orion's eyes, but he could not find it in himself to respond. He could only try to draw in just a little more air, but soon even that would become too much trouble.

The Orion pushed him away, sending him swinging on the rope, contriving to make sport with him to the amusement of on looking guards. Garal soon grew tired of this, however, and locked his arms around the man, drawing him closer to his leering face.

He was helpless as the Orion squeezed what little air remained from his lungs, murmuring mocking words of love and desire. He was vaguely aware of the guards who stood among the prisoners, some of them laughing and jeering at Garal's play, some turning their faces away.

A backhand brought his attention back to Garal. "Enough of this, human. Perhaps I should cut you down and put you in the chair."

Faal shook his head, his eyes sending the pleading message he had no breath to speak. The Mind-Ripper – it controlled at Garal's will, intruded at his whim, and could manipulate anyone in the compound, even Orions. But to be placed in the chair itself – if you went in the chair. . .

When Garal cut him down all hope left him, and he knew he was going to die.

ooOOoo

"Captain Spock, there is an urgent request from sickbay!" Uhura's face registered shock.

"Sickbay – Dr. McCoy?" Spock was already up and moving toward the turbolift.

"No, sir, it's Nurse Chapel. She said it was vital you repot to sickbay immediately and cut me off. I can't raise her. Shall I call security?"

"That will not be necessary, thank you. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."

Spock knew what questions would fly around the bridge in his absence, but that did not matter. Chapel would never have acted in such a way if she had not had good reason. Besides, something was ringing in his head which a certain starship captain would have teasingly warned could be intuition. Whatever it was, it was sounding loud and clear. He strode into sickbay so quickly the opening door could barely accommodate him. He found the place empty; without hesitation, he moved toward the doctor's office, finding the door keyed closed. At his signal, however, the doors parted immediately and Christine worriedly filled him in on the situation.

McCoy lay on a small couch, white as death, his breathing too fast, shallow. A thin coat of perspiration shone on his face. His hands twitched occasionally and his head moved restlessly on the pillow Christine had provided.

"I've already scanned him, Mr. Spock, and he's in no danger. But he's hyperventilating, even in unconsciousness, which is something I've never seen before.

"I found him like this, slumped over his desk, and he woke up for a few seconds when I touched him. But he – he just went so _strange_. He looked, well, forgive me for being so subjective, but it looked as if he had looked at Death itself." She made an impatient gesture and knelt beside McCoy's chair. "I didn't believe you'd want me to call an aide, that you would want to handle this yourself. He wasn't in danger, so I decided to leave him here until you arrived." She glanced at the Vulcan, then looked at the floor. "I know it's not very logical, relying on your instincts."

Spock eyed her with approval. "Relying on your own best instincts is imminently logical." He continued: "If you will leave us now, Nurse, I will endeavor to reach the doctor through use of the mindmeld. I shall leave our need for privacy in your capable hands."

"Yes, sir," she said, savoring the two compliments rendered by such an unlikely source. She would guard that door now as if her very life depended upon it. She smiled wryly, realizing that based upon the value she placed on the two individuals in that locked room, perhaps it _did_.

ooOOoo

Spock's long fingers rested upon the doctor's face, psi connections made, yet he hesitated. McCoy was deep in shock; whatever this madness was had driven the man over the edge. In order to reach him, Spock would have to lower his remaining shields. Maintaining the _forr t'al_ while submitting himself openly to a disruptive mind link with Kirk had taken a slow toll. And now - could he _do_ this?

He looked upon the face he held in his hands. He had to try.

The Vulcan closed his eyes, slowing his breathing. His lips moved soundlessly; once his head moved in a quick gesture of denial, revealing pain such that even a Vulcan could not conceal it – still he held on. After a while Bones stopped the restless thrashing and his color improved. Spock removed his hands from his friend's face and sat back in his chair, exhausted.

As he gradually returned to consciousness, McCoy lay quietly for a time, remembering the dream, wondering how far Spock had to go to bring him back. He took a closer look at the Vulcan, noting the grey pallor under the green flesh tones, the dark green circles under his eyes. "Spock, do me a favor, will you?"

The Vulcan blinked hard, composing himself. "If I can."

"Go over there and pour us both a drink."

Spock, without hesitation, not even a raised eyebrow, made his way to the little cabinet which held various concoctions. He hesitated over the selection, then reached for a bottle.

"No, not that one. It'll take the hair off your chest."

Spock's eyebrow did go up that time, but he reached for another bottle and, observing the look of gruff approval from the physician, proceeded to pour a drink. "It would not be in my best interest to partake, Doctor. However," he added in a deeper tone, "I believe it would be in _yours_."

McCoy raised himself up on one elbow, feeling some strength return, and downed the bourbon in one gulp, savoring its fiery warmth all the way down. Spock did not offer to take the empty glass from his hand.

"Spock, you okay?"

"I am recovering. I trust that you are also feeling better?"

"I suppose. Funny way to react to a dream. I've had plenty of nightmares in my life, but to get _lost_ in one of them. . ."

"Forgive me, but I must know. Did your dream in any way relate to my psionic experience on the _Aurelan_?"

McCoy suddenly gripped his glass so tightly it cracked. He cradled it to his chest and sat up. "I couldn't breathe."

"Why was that?"

"It's the position I was – he was in. Typical of torture, such as crucifixions on Earth. Most of the poor devils didn't die of spikes in their wrists and feet – they died of asphyxiation because the diaphragm couldn't function right. Fluid gathers around the heart and it simply can't pump anymore. Funny," he mused, his eyes wandering, "I remember something in the Bible that talked about blood flowing, mixed with water, when the soldier ran his spear in Jesus' side. . ."

"Was this sense of horror you experienced due to Jim's suffocation?"

"No," said McCoy harshly, realizing he had let himself slip away for a moment, "it was after that amber-eyed bastard grabbed me – Jim, that is – and then he threatened me – dammit! _Jim_!"

"I know who you mean. The revulsion of such close proximity to the Orion must have been hard to bear, even for the alter-ego Jonn to accept."

"Maybe. I don't know. Nothing mattered, not even staying alive – I welcomed death. But there was something else, something Jim feared more than the physical abuse, or maybe it was Jonn who was afraid – I can't remember now. . ." McCoy looked down at the glass, still clutched to his breast, then back at Spock, whose back had straightened to its usual ramrod distinction, his features molded into the well-known mask of non-emotion.

McCoy tried to tap his own resource of strength and found it empty. He lay back tiredly on the couch, waiting for sleep to take him again, saying, "You've got to do something, Spock. I don't think I can take much more of this. Either I've got to find out what's happened to Jim, before. . ."

He turned his face to the wall, the glass held in his arms like a baby.

". . . before I go crazy."

_Yes_, Spock thought as he went back to the bridge, leaving McCoy in Christine's care. It was time to do something, despite orders. It wouldn't be the first time. It was not only for his captain's sake he must do this, but for his own sake, and the doctor's, or 'going crazy' would become a very real possibility for both of them.

ooOOoo

The young aide staring at Spock from the monitor wore a smug, almost insubordinate smirk. "Admiral Nogura is unavailable, Captain Spock," he said in an efficient tone. "He has instructed me to relay any information you or the _Aurelan_ may have."

_An interesting way to handle classified information_, Spock thought. _Another way of saying the science vessel's mission is routine? Or another decoy?_ Spock was not about to give up quite so easily as the aide had perhaps expected.

"It is not information I wish to impart to the Admiral, Lieutenant. I would make an urgent request of him, one which cannot be delayed. Please advise the admiral that I must speak with him immediately."

Spock saw the aide's eyes dart to one side. _So, Nogura was there, out of visual range, and hearing every word. . ._ The aide returned his attention to Spock. "That is out of the question, Captain. You have your orders, and no request or arbitration will be accepted at this time."

"_No_ request, Lieutenant? Do you have documentation of that order?" Spock was beginning to get that strange alarm in his head again: he accounted for it as part of the link with Kirk and decided it would be illogical to ignore it. The feeling was further heightened when the aide begged a few moments to bring the orders up on computer so they could be quoted verbatim. The screen switched to the Starfleet Command emblem with a **Please Wait** readout flashing in the lower left-hand corner. No doubt the orders were being generated at that very moment.

After some minutes, the screen cleared to the face of the aide again. "Captain Spock, this information is for your eyes only." _Leave it to bureaucracy to hold on to valuable information based on some obscure time line,_ Spock mused. The aidebegan to read:

"All investigative Federation ships are to remain in the area of detected alleged alien/Orion activity. Specific orders for science vessels are to investigate any and all activity of suspect nature from an observation standpoint only. Specific orders for C.O.'s of Federation ships accompanying science vessels are to refer to NonAl Code C, Section IVb, condition CONCLUSIVE, and assist said science vessels' C.O.'s in whatever way practicable. Only under extreme conditions will escorting ships' C.O.'s divulge classified NonAl information with C.O.'s of science vessels."

The aide cleared his throat and continued: "Under _no_ circumstances whatsoever is _any_ Federation vessel to involve itself in an act of aggression. This is a red zone area as there is evidence of a prevalent alien influence on other cultures. The Prime Directive is to be observed at all times, therefore C.O.'s of Federation ships, science or otherwise, must use discretionary judgement based upon this and previously outlined directives. Full hard-copy reports and thorough debriefing will follow any contacts."

There was more, but Spock had stopped listening to the aide's monotone. He had seen his opening. Nogura had left it there for him, although Spock knew it was not out of the kindness of his heart. The Vulcan had to admit that the old warrior certainly knew his tactics.

"Received and understood, Lieutenant. Please convey my greetings to Admiral Nogura, and advise him I will follow his instructions _to the letter_. Spock out." He cut the connection before the aide could reply, and turned to look at Scotty, who had also sat silently out of visual range. His mouth had fallen open in disbelief.

"I'll be a monkey's uncle!"

"As that is a physiological impossibility, I will take that to mean you are aware of what Nogura is proposing."

"Well, man, if I didn't hear you sayin' it now, I _still_ wouldna believe it. Why do you suppose he canna just give you an order and be done with it?"

"Experience, I would surmise. No doubt he is fondly remembering certain permissions after the fact to visit Talos IV, and again another 'side trip' to Vulcan which was not approved until after we had arrived."

"You mean, he wants you to go, but he doesn't want to _order_ you to go?' the Scotsman looked thoroughly confused and a little angry. He was not over fond of clandestine affairs.

"By the strictest observance of the orders, Mr. Scott, I am free to assist the science vessel in its mission – namely, to observe and investigate any unusual behavior by the Orions, as long as I do not initiate any act of aggression. Given the fact that they are already pirates, renegades, and deviants, _unusual_ would hardly describe those traits. Punitive imprisonment, on the other hand, _is_ unusual for Orions."

Scotty knew that Orions treated their marketable slaves well – fed them, exercised them, _pampered_ them – all to gain a good price. Who wanted emaciated or diseased slaves? Orions also stayed away from Federation people; it was a known fact that if ever a raid turned up a citizen of the Federation, that lucky individual soon found him or herself dumped off at the nearest Federation outpost, unmolested. It had become a standard joke that Federation citizens were the Orions' proverbial 'hot potato'.

So why were the Orions now maintaining a penal colony somewhere in the area of the last attacks? Such rumours had filtered all the way down to engineering by now, so they must be based on some fact. And why were there rumours in the outlying colonies of horrible atrocities being committed in the penal compound? Then there was the worst rumour of all – why were there _Federation_ prisoners in this camp?

"You're sayin' Nogura's given you permission to look for the Jim-lad because you think he might be a prisoner in one of the compounds."

"Based upon evidence Dr. McCoy and I have obtained since landfall in San Francisco, we are of the strong opinion that Captain Kirk has been captured while undercover to investigate what, up until now, the Federation hesitated to risk more science vessels for. We believe he was sent in when it was not certain whether the alien who has allegedly influenced the Orions still remained in this quadrant. One vessel had already been destroyed and, at the time, the Federation was not prepared to risk another."

"So it risked the life of the finest starship captain to ever serve in the Fleet instead. Blasted bureaucrats, meddlin' in. . ."

"Indeed. I will not debate you, Mr. Scott. I will only say that, in light of the arbitrary view they take of this starship captain, I must make it my duty to remove him from those 'unusual' conditions, along with any other Federation citizens who also may be there."

"Agreed. But the orders are clear – you canna take the _Enterprise_ with you on an open search. What will you do?"

"Exactly as I have briefed you. By leaving the _Enterprise_ we are, in the strictest sense, obeying the directive. We are not engaging the ship in an unauthorized search." Spock paused as the savvy engineer processed this information. "I now turn command of the _Enterprise_ over to you. Dr. McCoy and I will proceed with our own plans, of which I have revealed only the barest essentials to you. In the event of repercussions you will be exempt from blame, as you will have no knowledge of our specific intent."

"Ach, but I _do_. Your specific intent is to rescue Captain Kirk."

"Not officially. My specific intent, as recorded in ship's log and my personal log, is to follow Admiral Nogura's orders to the letter, as I have already explained. Whether my actions prove to be of value to the Federation or a matter of court martial can only be determined after they have played their course."

"How will you keep in touch with us, Captain? The transponders you and Dr. McCoy are wearin' will tell me very little. Unless we're somehow within range, we'll not know where you are. And even if we do locate the signal, how will I know if you need the _Enterprise_?"

"It is totally out of the question for the _Enterprise _to affect an aggression of any sort, Mr. Scott. To do that would be in direct violation of the admiral's orders."

"Aye. That it would." The chief engineer stood with arms akimbo, nettled with the situation. "Nevertheless, Mr. Spock, orders or no orders, if you need us and can hail the _Enterprise_, I want to hear you loud and clear. You let me worry about the orders. Agreed?"

Scotty held out his hand, knowing the Vulcan's dislike of the human gesture, but needing something more than a verbal assent. Spock must have sensed this for, without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed the engineer's hand in a firm grip, holding it for a long moment before leaving the room without another word.

Scotty turned to the observation port, a view of the _Aurelan_ and outlying stars in his sight, wondering darkly if the next time he saw Spock it would be at a court-martial, or even if he'd ever see him again. He stood a moment before squaring his shoulders and hitting the comm switch.

"Engineering, this is Scott."

A female voice responded.

"I'm off to the bridge now, lass. Have you made those adjustments in the conducers I told you about?"

"Under way now, sir. Do you wish a full report?"

"Not now," Scotty answered. "Just send a yeoman up to me with progress reports. We're not goin' anywhere for awhile."

"Aye, sir."

Scotty closed the channel and started for the nearest turbolift. He was prepared for a long wait – perhaps the longest wait of all.

ooOOoo

McCoy took a long pull from his coffee mug. "What's this planet we're headin' for, Spock?" he asked sleepily. Minutes ago he had been enjoying his first dreamless sleep in weeks when his cramped cabin's wake alarm had sounded, and his mood was far from light. The badly synthesized coffee didn't help much, either.

"Planetoid, to be exact, Doctor."

McCoy bridled, but he was too anxious to argue with the Vulcan. "Planet_oid_, then. Does it have a name?" He grimaced as he swallowed another gulp of the bad coffee, but the caffeine was helping.

"Beta Gamma II. It is the only colony within a half parsec perimeter which has a space pot of sorts _and_ private vessel dealerships."

"Hm. A unique and necessary combination for a weary wanderer, maybe?" McCoy was fully awake now. "Just like we two." He gestured at their own misshapen, nondescript tunics and trousers. The outfits had not been synthesized by ship's store; they had been purchased at the Tirellis Colony, where the _Galileo_ had dropped them off into a wallow of anonymity. They caught this rag-tag space-bus which seemed to make every possible stop along the way to the little planet, but at last they could see the colony shining before them like a small moon. McCoy's impatience did little to speed up landing; he did take small comfort, however, in the fact that they had no luggage to contend with.

"I hope you brought the travel-credits, dear," he quipped as they disembarked the bus. "I'm afraid I left my purse at home."

Spock rolled his eyes in studied martyrdom and headed for the center of town, McCoy following close behind.


	7. Chapter 6

Empty Spaces

Chapter Six 

"We have two left; I can recommend only one," said the Andorian, gesturing toward the non-descript vessels behind him. Nasim had been observing the strangers deep in discussion as they cast glances toward his lot. He made them for off-worlders immediately. Though there was plenty of traffic from Tirellis, Nasim could spot strangers at a glance. That ability, along with a superb memory and language capability, had earned Nasim this post. The honour was well worth the surgery. As the two men approached him, his sequiglottis thrummed quietly in anticipation before he spoke to them in Standard: "The other one needs an overhaul."

McCoy looked at the two ships, hunched on their landing gear like grasshoppers, and grunted in disdain. "Are we supposed to guess which one?"

Spock shot the physician a warning glance before turning to the Andorian dealer. "You have surmised that we are interested in purchasing a vessel."

"I know my business. I own the last two short-range warp drive ships on this rock, and you two look like you need one."

"That is of no consequence, Dealer," Spock answered. "Why would I want to purchase such a vessel without any guarantee of its capability? Have you any references?"

Nasim's antennae flattened exactly as a true Andorian's would, and he smiled inwardly as the smaller man took a step back, a sure sign he knew the customs of the Andorian race, a species not commonly seen in this quadrant. _So, they _are_ spacers! No wonder they look so out of place, _he thought. "I keep no records. You take it or leave it."

The smaller man spoke, his tone soothing and polite. "The bartender across town said you hadn't sold a vessel for some time. Seems to me you might be a little more anxious to sell now. Surely you and I could come to some sort of agreement. For instance, how about that customer the bartender told us about? He said you belly-ached about a particular sale some time ago, claiming the man who bought it got the better of you. If he got such a good deal, why couldn't you use him as a reference? Where can we contact him?"

Nasim scowled. This human was looking for more than a vessel or reference. And his companion, though hooded, was obviously vulcanoid – unlikely companions in these parts. Searching for Ganezh's pet, no doubt. "Forget it," he growled. "Do you want a ship or don't you?"

Spock eyed the Andorian. He obviously knew something, but there was little chance of his divulging it. "We will give the matter some consideration and contact you tomorrow morning should we decide not to make other travel arrangements."

The two men strolled away, supposedly unconcerned that they were abandoning the only means of travel in this sector, barring taking the shuttle bus back where they came from. Beta Gamma II was a take-off point for may places, and strangers did not usually make round trips back to Tirellis. Nasim knew the shuttle clientele – regulars who bartered, brought imported goods, traded he nightlife. But strangers who shuttled to Beta Gamma were bound elsewhere, the colony merely a launching site for many uncharted asteroids and planetoids, places controlled by privateering Orions and their minions. These two strangers were no different – they would be back tomorrow. The questions they were asking, however, were unsettling. Stranger traffic had dwindled to practically nothing since word of Ganezh's influence had circulated. When Faal had shown up Nasim had speculated that he was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to foray into the alien's territory. But Ganezh the alien had 'favored' him and shipped him off to the Cholanthis compound, never to be sold or killed. These two knew something of him, or he was no Orion.

Nasim closed up shop early and went to his home, a room above a brothel. Raucous noise from the party swelled below him as he put in a call to Rriendal, captain of the patrolling Orion ship, his commanding officer. Perhaps soon these strangers would also be making an unexpected trip to Cholanthis. Better for them if they had forgotten about their acquaintance. Whether it was or friendship or revenge they sought him, they would soon find their sole search would be for a quick and easy death.

ooOOoo

"Well, we wanted to find Jim, but I guess I didn't give much thought as to _how_ we would do it," McCoy grumbled, testing the strength of his bonds. Spock, likewise restrained, sat quietly across the cubicle. "You sure this is the way we planned it?"

"You will only succeed in injuring yourself if you continue to struggle," said the Vulcan, noting the raw skin of the doctor's wrists. "As to our capture, I assumed we would fall into the hands of the alleged Orions in much the same way Jim did, simply because we are taking the same steps. No doubt intruders into this quadrant are not free to travel where they will, but are taken for questioning."

"Or worse." Sighing in resignation, McCoy leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. Despite the 'success' of their plan, it was still hard to fathom how quickly their circumstances had changed. One minute they were headed for one of the many asteroid fields, the next they were caught in a tractor beam. Once their vessel was pulled inside the larger ship, a contingent of Orions had escorted hem to the cell they now occupied.

So far they had not been mistreated. In fact, they had been virtually ignored. McCoy had the haunting idea that the Orions were transporting them to a slave colony, parsecs from any civilization as he knew it. But what was he thinking? "Spock, any Orion worth his salt would know you and I are Federation, so why would they want us?"

"Because they do not want us to report what we've learned. Up to now the Orions have been the elusive antagonists. They have been an annoyance but hardly a threat. The Babel incident, however, proved that they can be formidable if adequately motivated. However, when we confronted them that time they backed off. Dilithium was their catalyst before, but something entirely different spurred them to action this time – something far more compelling."

"You mean the report we heard about the alien presence? The attacks and rumours?"

"Yes. There was no logic in the attacks on the Civibase or the science vessel, not even the perverted logic of terrorism. The attacks were simply made. Then there is the illogic of Federation prisoners and rumours of torture. The Orions are too capitalistic to maintain prisoner compounds which do not afford them a profit. Which follows that an alien presence may have coerced or forced them into these acts."

"If we corroborate that fact to Starfleet, the rumours won't be rumours anymore."

"Precisely."

"So why haven't they killed us?"

"Until now, I would have said because we are Federation citizens. Based on the prison rumours, however, I must confess I have insufficient data to form an opinion."

"Who needs data? I can't ignore this gut feeling, prickles at the back of my neck, a. . ."

"There is no need to inundate me with allegories, Doctor. What is your opinion?"

"That they knew we were looking for Jim. That they're holding him somewhere, for whatever reason, and they were afraid we'd find him and escape. They won't let us go for the same reason they won't let him go – we know too much."

"That does not account for the fact that the Orions could have easily annihilated us, thus eradicating any problem we may have presented. There is another factor which is yet to be disclosed and until we find out what it is, speculation is pointless."

"It may be pointless, but it beats staring at the walls. This whole thing has been nothing but a wild goose chase from the start!" McCoy threw himself sideways on his pallet and tried to find oblivion in sleep.

Spock sat alone, watching McCoy. The man was anxious, understandably so, because they were about to embark on yet another unknown journey in their long mission together. He clamped his mind shut on the nagging suggestion that it may very well be their last.

ooOOoo

Jonn stood at the far end of the compound, hustled and prodded along with the others to stand at attention in order to observe the arrival of new prisoners. A squad of petty officers from the Orion ship encircled two men and escorted them through the gates, weapons brought to bear. One of the officers approached Garal, commander of the compound on the asteroid Cholanthis, and remanded them to his care. His voice carried easily across the yard and Jonn head the words 'Phederata-an' and 'Faal'. Garal cursed loudly, glancing toward Jonn, and spat into the dirt. The officer, undaunted, continued his verbal barrage, but the only other word Jonn could make out was 'Ganezh'. This seemed to have the desired effect, as Garal sullenly accepted care of the prisoners.

A fellow inmate, a Tellarite, pressed against Jonn's side. "Anybody you know, Faal?" he whispered. At least to a Tellarite it must have seemed like a whisper. To Jonn it sounded as if his friend had shouted it over the whole compound.

"Shh! I want to hear what they're saying."

"Well, all you had to do was say so," snapped the shorter inmate, his nostrils flaring.

Jonn turned to him in exasperation, aware of the watchful eye of the guard. "Tarn, please." He smiled disarmingly. Mollified somewhat, the Tellarite subsided and Jonn was able to turn his attention to the new 'enrollees'. It appeared these two were under the same 'non-destruct' category he was, sent to Cholanthis by Ganezh. A lot of good it would do them, he thought, especially the taller one. His hood, thrown back, revealed his Vulcan heritage, and would soon make him the object of derision among some of he prisoners, of sport among select guards. It did not do to stand out too much here.

The guards removed the new prisoners' cloaks and a black packet carried by the human. The man was incensed and tried to retrieve the box-shaped article, claiming the Orion captain had allowed him to keep it. He was yelling something about being a doctor, that he needed those things. . .

A guard slammed the butt of his blaster between the human's shoulders, knocking him to his knees. Garal threw the black box on the ground in front of the man and stomped it into a shapeless mass before his eyes.

_So it begins for them_, Jonn thought, averting his eyes from the scene, feeling their shame. They would have to learn everything the hard way, as the rest of the prisoners had. They would have to learn alone, and fast, to survive here. And if you survived, you had already learned the hardest lesson of all.

ooOOoo

"NonAl Code C, Section IVb, condition CONCLUSIVE. Okay, Mr. Scott, I see it; it's obviously classified – what does it mean?" The young captain of the science vessel frowned at the printed transcript of the last Starfleet transmission to the _Enterprise_.

Scott had thought it prudent not to tell her that he 'overheard' the information. What mattered right now was that he was acting captain of the _Enterprise_ and he was hell-bent on getting her three top officers back. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together on his crossed knee. "Nothin', lass, if you're runnin' a science vessel." He watched her for a reaction, wondering just how much he could trust this youngster. Too often greenies went by the book – there was not enough experience or wisdom to temper their decisions. Science vessel captains – were they the same as starship captains? He'd known a few in his time. Many were top-notch. Some, though. . . He shrugged mentally. Wouldn't do to judge the lass by past experience. She'd have to prove herself.

Fletcher, growing weary of Scott's silence, stood hastily and moved toward the briefing room door. "Mr. Scott, when you're ready to tell me something I can use, I'll be on the bridge."

Scott fought an impulse to smile; he appreciated Fletcher's fire, and empathized with her impatience. She had a job to do and he was taking up her valuable time. "The NonAl Code C section refers to Starfleet's dealings with non-alliance planets. With no treaties, no agreements of any kind, it's a very touchy thing to deal with 'em. Section IVb deals specifically with a non-alliance planet requesting assistance from the Federation via Starfleet. Such assistance could easily be construed as an act of war unless very strict guidelines were followed."

Fletcher walked back to the table, leaning on the back of a chair. "You're saying we're here because someone – the Orions – asked us to." She put both hands behind her back and paced the width of the room, chewing the inside of her cheek. Scotty kept his peace, waiting to see what she was working out on her own. She stopped in front of a small observation port and gazed out, then turned to look at the engineer. "I suppose CONCLUSIVE means we've verified that the request is genuine and they aren't trying to lure us into a trap of some kind."

"On the nose, Captain. The Orions are just as concerned about what's been happening in this quadrant as the Federation is."

Fletcher crossed her arms and leaned back against the bulkhead. "So, what are we supposed to do?"

"For the moment, nothin'. We still bide our time until we see or hear somethin' we can grab onto. I've seen your map for examining the asteroid belts around yonder star," he indicated the orb in question on the tactical screen, "and concur with your plans to divide the belts into ten sectors. We'd best keep our patience and tackle 'em one by one. We'll combine our science department with yours, poolin' our people's knowledge and experience as much as we can. My people will keep an eye on traffic in and out of the system. With the NonAl Code in operation, we're left pretty much to do as we please."

He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table. "If we pull this off and find out what these Orion renegades are up to, we'll be given citations."

"What if we don't?"

"Ah well," said the Scotsman, his features darkening, "then we'll be given somethin' else entirely."

ooOOoo

"Dr. McCoy, are you all right?" Spock gripped the physician's arm as Bones stumbled along with him toward the other prisoners, the guard behind them poking McCoy in the tender area between his shoulder blades.

The doctor nodded, his teeth clenched, and leaned on the Vulcan for support. He had treated injuries caused by blows to the spinal column, but had never had the pleasure of experiencing one himself. The pain, though subsiding, was still considerable, and he was glad for Spock's help.

"Spock, that was my medical kit! Everything I had was in there: scanner, broad spectrum hypos! I. . ."

"Quiet, earther!" snapped the guard, and slammed the palm of his hand into the doctor's back. Stifling a cry, McCoy fell to the ground in front of the watching prisoners who stood attention in front of them. Spock noticed that not one of them looked at the injured man; he also noticed the watchfulness of the guards who surrounded them. The guard who had accompanied them across the yard eyed him expectantly. Spock took his cue from the other prisoners and stood respectfully, looking down. Gradually, though no one moved, he could sense a perceptible relaxing among the guards who, after a few more seconds, lowered their weapons and left the prisoners alone.

Spock knelt beside the doctor, who was on his hands and knees. A few prisoners moved away as soon as the guards left, but some of them crowded in to watch as the Vulcan helped the medical officer to stand. Two prisoners stepped forward.

"You should never confront a guard face-to-face," growled the Tellarite.

"Especially if he's Garal," added the human.

Spock, still supporting McCoy, turned his gaze to the second speaker and his jaw dropped. McCoy, instantly recognizing the voice of the human, lifted his head and looked into the hazel eyes of Jim Kirk.

"Jim!" yelled the doctor. Oblivious to pain, he flung himself from Spock and onto Jonn, hugging him fiercely.

"Get off me!" Jonn's eyes widened in horror and he cast a look of panic at his Tellarite companion. He wrestled from McCoy's embrace and pushed him away.

McCoy stood dumbfounded, his eyes smarting as if he'd been struck in the face. "Jim," he repeated, his voice breaking, "it's me, it's. . ."

"Doctor," Spock warned. The sound of his own voice seemed strange. The link with Kirk in such close proximity bombarded him with such fear, the enormity of it staggered him. This was Faal's fear, and it was directed at McCoy! Clearing his throat, trying to ignore the powerful emotions pervading his mind, Spock sought the physician's attention. It would not do to alert the guards of the captain's real name, nor their own.

But McCoy didn't hear him. He was looking in disbelief at Kirk, searching his face for signs of recognition, signs that simply weren't there. For so long he'd imagined this event, when the obstacles and problems had been overcome and they were together once more – the mutual embraces and slaps on the back, the joking and kidding among the half-hidden tears. But _this!_ "Don't you know me?" he tried again.

"No, I don't. Even if I did, I wouldn't pull a damn fool stunt like that! You don't want to attract attention to yourself – ever! Some of the guards are on the lookout for new candidates for their Ripper device. And if there aren't any volunteers they take what they want. So you keep your hands to yourself, you got that?"

"I – I got it," Bones mumbled, wanting only to sit down. Most of the prisoners had dispersed; the encroaching twilight apparently was a signal for the day's routine to end. Turning his back on Faal, Spock helped McCoy over to a pile of crates where one or two prisoners sprawled, and lowered him to the ground. He paused a moment, settling his thoughts as much as possible. First order of business must be to assess their situation. Crouching beside the doctor, the Vulcan took the first good look around the compound since he had arrived. Roughly square in shape, there was only one entrance at the far end, the C.O.'s quarters beside it. Guard towers were at every corner, with guards on foot between them at ground level. There was no wire or fence around the perimeter, but the field of the atmospheric screen could be discerned by the moisture condensed upon it. One step through that was death in the vacuum of space. Apparently the only way out was through the gate. So why the towers?

To his left, approximately twenty feet inside the guards' perimeter, was a small shack with two doors. A line of prisoners moved into one of them and out the other, bowls in hand. When they came out each bowl held a lump of grey-white material which they ate with their fingers. Spock could not help but notice how little of it there was, and how soon consumed.

"You don't' get any tonight."

Spock looked up at Faal, who stood with his own bowl, already empty, licking his fingers.

"Please explain."

Faal shrugged. "First night. Call it initiation rites. Most of us walked right up there with the rest of them, thinking we'd be fed this garbage like everyone else." Faal ran his finger around the rim of the bowl and popped it into his mouth, then wiped his dirty hand on a dirtier shirt. "What we didn't know was that they put you in your place for such impertinence."

"What do they do to you?" asked McCoy.

"They make you kill and eat a cuara with your bare hands."

"What is a cuara?" Spock asked.

"That," answered Faal, pointing to the privies. A pale creature about the size of a Terran rat scurried around busily, a furless animal with large, luminous purple eyes and slitted ear-holes just behind them, giving it the unnerving appearance of a tiny white shark with legs. "They're quite muscular around the back of the head. The only way you can kill one is to hit it between the eyes. That is, if you can hit it before it bites you."

"You've got my attention, man. What's the catch?" McCoy had the distinct impression Faal was enjoying this, and he didn't like being the object of his amusement.

"The bite's poisonous. Not enough to kill you, though you wish it was. But you don't have a choice. You either kill the cuara or you go to the Ripper. So you stomp on it, kick it, throw rocks at it. Then you pick up the dead mess and eat it piece by piece, organ by organ, until it's consumed. Fortunately the bones are small, and the guards don't care if you puke your guts out. . ."

"That's _enough_," said Spock, noting McCoy's unnatural pallor. "Why would you warn us of this initiation?" Faal's smirk faded, his eyes unfathomable for a moment. Then he shrugged nonchalantly and sat upon an upturned crate. "Let's just say I like to give the cuara a break once in awhile. They are useful, you know." At Spock's raised eyebrow, Faal continued: "They keep the privies clean."

McCoy snorted in spite of himself, and Faal broke into a small, lopsided grin which looked so good it hurt. The doctor, still contending with residual pain, shivered involuntarily, noticing for the first time how quickly the temperature was dropping.

"Sleep back to back, if you trust each other," advised Faal, his voice low. "Next to that, the best way's with your back to the perimeter shield. The field generates a small amount of heat, but that's not the best feature. No one can get to you from behind."

A blaring, discordant sound screeched across the compound.

"That's the lights out signal. You have one minute to find your place, then it's pitch dark. If you're caught moving around after that, it's punishment." Faal nodded to them, walking briskly toward his own 'place' near some of the other prisoners.

"My God, Spock, look at him!" whispered the physician. "He's lost twenty pounds, at least!"

"It has not escaped my notice," replied the Vulcan, as he watched Faal settle himself next to the Tellarite, near the perimeter. The borrowed Orion uniform hung loosely on his frame, and as he assumed the fetal position to conserve heat, Faal looked more like an adolescent than a starship captain.

ooOOoo

McCoy's shivering woke Spock just before dawn. He raised his head cautiously, remembering Faal's warning, and looked around the still quiet yard. Guards stood sleepily at their posts, no longer pacing; some prisoners were in heavy sleep while others turned restlessly. The light was broadening with encroaching day and Spock could see quite clearly a guard walk among a group of sleeping prisoners and pick one out, roughly pulling the man to his feet. The prisoner walked ahead of the guard toward a building across from the C.O.'s quarters – apparently a storage building of some kind. The Orion pushed the prisoner in ahead of him and kicked the door shut. A few seconds later another Orion, dressed in laboratory gear and carrying a small bag, walked from a building behind the C.O.'s quarters and entered the storage building.

Spock waited for some time, listening for what, he wasn't sure. There was no noise from the building, no sign of movement in the broadening light. Soon, the discordant sound of the morning assembly warning blared across the area. Prisoners hurriedly picked themselves off the ground and moved to form straight lines in the middle of the compound. The prisoner and two Orions still had not come out of the building, and Spock was forced to give up his vigil.

McCoy was stiff and sore, finding it difficult to stand. "Spock, you go on," he said to the Vulcan as the prisoners scurried to their positions. "I can barely walk, much less run."

Spock would hear nothing of it. Placing one arm around McCoy's waist and pulling the doctor's arm around his own shoulders, he half-lifted the man and brought him to the assembly before the guards began to catch stragglers. Spock noticed that some of the guards were exceptionally harsh with prisoners who moved too slowly, but other guards appeared to be overlooking such breaches of conduct.

The prisoners stood at attention for one hour, two hours, without making a sound. The sun, climbing quickly, began to heat the humid atmosphere, and Spock found himself breathing shallowly, his body's involuntary response to inhospitable conditions. He forced himself to breathe more deeply, not wishing to hyperventilate. The humid air felt like a hot weight in his expanding lungs.

There was movement at the C.O.'s door. Guards snapped to attention as Garal left the shade of the building and approached the assembly.

McCoy shifted his weight next to Spock. Though tempted to put out an arm to steady the man, Spock dared not do it, not wanting to draw attention to McCoy. "Just a few minutes longer, Doctor," he whispered. "No doubt we'll be dispersed after inspection." The human shot him a look of gratitude and straightened fractionally.

_Spock!_

Kirk's voice pierced the Vulcan's mind so abruptly and unexpectedly that he looked for its source before he could consider the consequences of his action. One row in front of him, at the end, stood Faal, who darted an involuntary look of surprise at Spock.

"You!" The voice was peremptory, cold.

"He means _you_, pointed ears!" yelled a guard who manhandled Spock to the front of the assembly to stand before Garal.

The commander of the compound walked up to Spock, eyeing him critically. "The new one. And a protected one, too," he said in Standard. "Do you know what that means, Vulcan, protected?" Somehow Spock did not think the Orion wanted an answer to that question. In any case, he remained silent.

"It means we can't kill you, because you're our benefactor's pet. Benefactor – pah!" he spat. "Meddler, manipulator!" The surrounding guards looked uncomfortable at their commander's outburst. "He controls us from who knows where, interfering, wasting me and my men on garbage holes like this!" Garal clenched his fists and blew an explosive gust through the sequiglottis, forcing himself to be calm. "In any event, I follow orders. You will no be killed, nor your medic friend. But mind this, Vulcan. There are things worse than death, and protection does not exempt you from them. Just ask Faal. He's been protected for awhile, haven't you, Faal?"

Jonn stood rigidly, not blinking, not daring to breathe, not wanting to have more attention drawn to himself. The guards always went after attention-getters.

"You turned your head in assembly, Vulcan. That is a crime which must be punished. Since it is your first offense, I will be lenient. Chandri, the least setting – _this_ time."

The guard whom Garal addressed approached Spock with a device loosely resembling a pair of tongs, a small box at the apex blinking a red light. "Hold still and it will be over quickly," said Chandri. Was there a hint of apology in his voice? Moving fast, he placed the tongs on either side of the Vulcan's forehead and pressed a switch. The energy which exploded through Spock's brain convulsed him before the regulated power surge shut off, and he collapsed to the ground, body twitching.

At some signal McCoy could not discern, the assembly was dismissed, and he hobbled toward his fallen friend. The guard who administered the punishment, Chandri, stuck out his arm, barring him. "I'm sorry, human, but no one is to interfere. Your friend will be all right." He looked around nervously. "But you must leave the area at once before you face the same punishment, or worse." He glanced over toward the mysterious storage building where Spock had observed the anonymous prisoner disappear hours earlier.

Reluctantly the doctor backed off, turning to follow the other prisoners. He was brought up short by the sight of Faal, hands clasped to his head as he staggered blindly away. Bones went to him as quickly as his injuries would allow, reaching him about the same time as Faal's companion, the Tellarite. Together they guided him toward the crates. They sat the man down and McCoy took a seat himself, his legs trembling with fatigue. Across from him, in plain view, was Spock's unconscious form, but there was nothing he could do for him, _nothing_. He leaned forward to ease his back and watched for the first sign of movement.

ooOOoo

_Stardate: Unknown. Location: Unknown. Personal log of – well, never mind. I know who I am, I think. It's been a long time since I've entered a log on paper, using a stylus. However, we take what we can get here, which is a little of everything. Fortunately one or two guards are pretty decent fellows. I have a sneaky feeling many of them don't want to be here at all. Amazingly enough, Chandri, the guard who applied the energy discipline to Spock, is the one who gave me these writing materials. He says it's because I'm the 'doc', whatever that means. I think it's because he feels sorry for me. Anyway, to update, Spock seems fully recovered from the energy discipline he endured several days ago, but I know him too well not to see subtle changes. We've been in capture situations before, Spock and I, and he's shown himself to be a wellspring of jail-breaking techniques. Just how many times I've watched him examine every crack, every seam of our cell with those long fingers, looking for any means available for escape, I can' begin to count. But now I'm not sure what Spock is doing. There's something, but it's not true to character, doesn't fit somehow. If I could just figure it out. . ._

"Damn." McCoy looked at the broken end of the stylus, disgust written on his face.

"Expletives will not restore the point."

"Spare me, Spock. I'm not talking about the stylus anyway," he fussed, "or this either, though I should," he continued, pointing to the mess in his untouched food bowl. Spock shot him a look which reminded him he had spoken his friend's name and Bones bit his lip in anger.

It was bad enough thinking of Jim as Jonn Faal without having to remember his and Spock's 'other' names as well. His was easy enough – everyone called him 'doc' from the first day and found nothing unusual in the Vulcan's more formal 'doctor'. But Spock's name – the agreed-upon alias had been Salek, but McCoy found himself unable to relate to that name at all. It was a mental effort to use it and, in his fatigue, he often forgot. Whenever they were able to speak privately, it was in whispers – only once had McCoy spotted Jonn staring at them quizzically, and he had no way of knowing whether it was because he had overheard him call the Vulcan by his real name, or some other reason.

In any event, since Spock's discipline Jonn had kept his distance. Apparently he had become aware of his attachment to Spock via the 'Kirk' link, though he probably didn't understand how or why. His Tellarite friend Tarn, however, was curious, often sidling up to them in the food line or inviting them to play in one of the games the prisoners had contrived to while away the idle hours. Their reluctance to become friendly with Faal's companion might have quailed the ardor of a human, but Tellarites' feelings rarely got hurt unless they felt like it. Tarn's good-natured, stage-voiced vocalizations were at least tolerated if not encouraged.

It was time for evening meal – as usual, they sat in the familiar, almost comforting area of the crates. This was home now. Strange how things had altered in the course of a few days. McCoy was seated beside Spock and looked down into the bowl again. There among the _terga_, an Orion grain food, were squirming the usual white grubs, hatched from eggs laid by insects as the grain waited in various space docks along the trading routes. McCoy had watched as prisoners ate the grubs along with the undercooked grain, seeing that they suffered no apparent ill effects, but as yet he had been unable to make himself follow suit. He had methodically picked them out the first night they were fed and crushed them under the heel of his boot. On the other hand Spock, though a vegetarian, had begun consuming the grubs after observing the other prisoners' practice, so McCoy began giving him his. It was just another sign of Spock's altered behavior. He had entered into the compound routine without hesitation, spent the endless hours during the day seemingly in meditation, and behaved with deference to the guards and C.O., though they and even a few of the prisoners found opportunities to mock and bully him. Despite that, along with the dirt, unsanitary facilities, and abominable food, Spock carried himself as if he were on a diplomatic mission, his every need provided for.

Even this could be expected of the Vulcan, McCoy knew. It would be a defense against the horrible things they were beginning to see here – and they were horrible. McCoy had wakened several times in the night to disembodied screams of pain echoing in the blackness. Once he had detected movement near them as he and Spock huddled back to back for warmth, but when Spock sat up hastily the intruder moved away. Just last night there had been a scuffle near the perimeter next to the food shack, where Faal slept, and this morning Jonn had sported a black eye and an ugly weal which started under his left ear and disappeared down the neck of his shirt. Tarn, for once, was tight-lipped about the matter.

McCoy shook his head. It was difficult looking at Kirk and knowing that he wasn't really seeing his friend. What was more shocking was when he realized that sometimes he didn't think of Jonn as Jim Kirk at all. This Faal personality was becoming a separate entity, a person in his own right.

"What is bothering you, Doctor?" Spock set down his empty bowl and eyed the untouched food in McCoy's bowl.

McCoy tried to smile – it moved his lips but didn't reach his eyes. He looked at the bowl and its contents and decided the effort was too much tonight, and kicked it from him into the dirt. "You want to know what's _bothering_ me, Spock, here? Now?" he gestured widely, including all the ragged people around them. "Prisoners, not knowing what's going to happen from day to day, wondering just how long we. . ." He stopped, forcing himself to lower his voice. "I'll tell you what's bothering me. _You_."

"I don't understand."

"Look, Spock, it's a well-known fact that your habits have a way of getting under my skin sometimes, simply because you and I both know it's your way of disguising or coping with your feelings. Don't argue with me on that, either," he emphasized as Spock prepared to do just that. "You asked, so shut up and listen. See, I understand why you follow the routine, such as it is here. It's logical. It gives you – us – a sense of purpose. It's a safety valve of sorts. Everyone has his own kind. So that in itself doesn't bother me. What does bother me is that you seem to have _accepted_ it."

"Accepted our situation, you mean."

"That is exactly what I mean."

"You are correct."

McCoy checked himself just in time and leaned toward his friend, whispering harshly: "What?"

"I _have_ accepted the situation. But not as you have interpreted it. I am merely waiting until there is opportunity to _change_ the situation."

"Oh yeah. Right. Quite logical. Why couldn't I see that?" quipped the physician, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"Dr. McCoy." Spock had lowered his voice so that Bones had to lean forward even more to hear him. "Jim contacted me that first morning, at assembly."

"When you were punished for moving?"

"Yes. I was so taken unaware by my name, spoken by Jim, exploding in my mind that I instinctively turned toward the source. Jonn was aware something had happened, but he was confused. I sensed it in the link, along with the same fear I sensed when you displayed a rather demonstrative affection for the captain. When you told me of his subsequent reaction after I had been subjected to the energy-stun, I was convinced more than ever that the Faal persona is severely subliminating Kirk's. The cry of my name was Jim's frantic effort to reach me. It took all his strength, Doctor."

"Spock, you don't' think. . ."

Spock shot him a look of warning and cut eyes toward an approaching prisoner. It was Faal. He looked down at the spilled contents of McCoy's bowl.

"Waste of good material. I know some who would kill for that."

"You're mighty cock-sure, aren't you, Faal?" McCoy blurted. "Someone might think you got fried chicken every evening and scrambled eggs every morning. Must be part of that 'special treatment' we're supposed to get, huh? Only Spock and I have seen precious little of it, and I sure as hell haven't seen _you_ get any of it!"

Faal faltered, the smugness draining away to reveal resignation. "The only special treatment you'll get around here is the dirty kind. They know they can't kill you, so they find ways to punish you, instead. Then some of the prisoners hate you because they think you _do_ get preferred treatment. So they take it upon themselves to see to it you're punished. You've experienced it already, Salek," he commented, gesturing toward the fading bruise on Spock's forehead, the result of an 'accident' resulting when several prisoners had pushed the Vulcan into the wall of a building. The comments were of such nature as 'top-heavy', 'to much weight to carry on that stiff neck' – al centered on the pointed auricles of Spock's anatomy.

"Yes, I have experienced it. As, apparently, have you. But is only from a handful of the guards, and some of the prisoners."

The resignation hardened into a more familiar, stubborn resolve. "Just a few. If you only knew. . ." Faal drew himself up. "But you don't give in to it. You survive."

The anger McCoy had been feeling toward Faal melted into the sudden compassion he felt for Kirk as he saw glimpses of him through the other personality. Kirk would have fought back, too, and he would have made adjustments, waiting for an opportunity – just like Spock. Waiting for the right time. But what if the time were right and Faal wouldn't let him out? What must Jim be feeling right now? Was Spock picking up on any of that? Could _that_ be the reason for his clinging to routine so? His thoughts were interrupted by the Vulcan.

"Jonn, in the spirit lf learning more about our environment here, I would like to ask you some questions. If you believe them to be too personal you are, of course, under no obligation to answer them."

Faal jerked his head around at the sound of approaching feet, but relaxed as he saw Tarn approach. "We have a few minutes before light out. You can ask, but I don't guarantee anything." Noticing Spock's and McCoy's glances at the Tellarite, he continued: "Tarn knows what I might be telling you. He understands everything." Faal sat on a crate, his arms folded upon his chest. Tarn sat cross-legged on the ground next to him.

"Very well." Spock indicated the scratch on Faal's neck. "In regard to your own recent injuries, is it common for prisoners to be attacked in the night?

Faal hesitated before answering. "Yes, and no. Certain prisoners are – property. The guards use them for pleasure, and in turn the prisoners get extra food, baths and clean clothes occasionally, or something to read. Once in a great while, a lucky one gets shipped off to a slave colony. But that's rare.

"Most of us here are regular prisoners – sent here by someone named Ganezh. The Orions speak his name like he's a god, and there's talk he's around somewhere, just waiting to pounce on the unlucky ones who aren't doing what he wants – the ones who've run across Ganezh or his rabble in one way or another. The regulars are left to their own devices, just going along until they're bitten by a cuara once too often, or malnutrition takes its toll, or they make the wrong guard angry." Faal paused, rubbing the thumb of one hand into the palm of the other, an unconscious gesture Bones and Spock readily recognized. "Once in a while one of us disappears. There's a device in the shack over there, some toy Ganezh left for the Orions. We call it the Ripper. It's been used on a few prisoners and some of the guards; the power terminals are in the four guard towers. My guess is that there's a simple solar satellite which directs energy to the towers. They were setting it up when I got here."

"How long ago was that, Jonn?" asked McCoy.

Faal bit his lip in reflection, then shrugged, a pained look darting across his face. "I don't know." He waved his hand impatiently. "It doesn't matter. I just know I've seen the changes that thing can make in a person. They scan you with it to condition you, then they can control or monitor you with relays from the tower. But it's not just the device." He looked around him worriedly. "It's this _place._" Tarn reached up and lay a three-toed hand on Faal's arm, and the wild look slowly cleared from the human's eyes. He turned his gaze directly on Spock. "I've seen many walk in that gate. But they don't ever walk out again." The hazel eyes had darkened with unspoken memories.

"And then there are the 'special' prisoners," interjected McCoy. "Are we three the only ones?"

Faal glanced around quickly before answering. "We three. I know why I am. I don't know why you are."

"Perhaps if you tell us why you were preferred it will give us a clue to the other question, Jonn," suggested the Vulcan.

"Ganezh is alien to the galaxy. He – invaded my mind after the Orions captured my ship. When he – touched me that way, he left certain impressions of his own mind. They were so powerful I thought my own thoughts would disappear. But I fought him; I. . ." Faal stopped, his chest heaving. He looked at Spock and McCoy as if to remind himself he was no longer on the Orion ship, and began again. "He _wanted_ something from me. I don't know what exactly, but he wanted it so badly I knew I could never give it to him – I knew instinctively that it would be my own destruction to give it to him. I don't know if I'm making any sense," he groaned, placing a hand to his forehead.

"A great deal. Please continue."

"He tried to trick me, make me think I was home. I was afraid he'd find out about my mother, hurt her. Hurt the Hid. . . hurt him. I couldn't – I couldn't. . ."

Jonn was locked in the memory again, the terror of discovery gripping him like claws. Once again the need to protect consumed him; he had to stop the memory, lock it away deep in the recesses of his mind. He had to stop it now, whatever the cost.

Spock felt the link tingle with life. Kirk was caught up in the vision as well, reliving the nightmare He, too, feared exposure of loved ones, of the mission.

"I have to stop him, have to stop him! Not safe, not. . ."

Faal's hands groped at his left side and he screamed.

The lights-out signal blared across the yard, masking the scream.

Spock reached across the short distance between him and Faal and ended the man's nightmare, for a time, with the nerve-pinch. He and McCoy placed the unconscious man's body between them, settling in for the night. No doubt he would sleep until morning. Tarn leaned over Faal, stroking the hair from his face. Spock caught his eye and nodded, and this was enough explanation for the Tellarite – for the time being.

"Spock," whispered McCoy as the camp was plunged into darkness. "He's losing it; Faal, I mean."

"He fears he is losing himself, Doctor. When I administered the nerve pinch I perceived what he had learned from Ganezh. The alien is a tortured, tormented entity. He lives solely to deny another being's aspirations and hopes. In Faal's case – and ultimately Jim's – that wish was death. Ganezh has denied them that release, which explains Faal's special treatment."

_And subsequently our own_, Spock thought. Despite their efforts, Garal knew the three men were somehow connected. Perhaps that mind-device Faal mentioned factored in this knowledge. He would like very much to find out more about the unit. It was as yet unclear whether Faal had been subjected to the device other than the initial scan, but it was obvious he was terrified of it. In the link, Jim Kirk's opinion of the machine was vague, masked. Spock shook himself mentally and continued his explanation to McCoy.

"Meanwhile," he went on, "what real memories Jonn has are limited, and most of them are of this place. _This_ is his reality. You and I have tipped the balance. No matter what he does, there is the Kirk part of him who knows us and wants to be returned to us. Faal senses that, and he believes if Kirk is returned, it will be the end of Jim – and it will be the end of himself."

"But you saw how strongly he protects Jim, too."

"Yes, and that is the madness of the persona, Doctor. He will protect at all costs, even the cost of ending his own life. But he does not yet realize that because he and Jim are inextricably linked – and this is the irony - preventing Jim from coming back will _murder_ the very person he was born to protect. If he cannot be made to see this, if he cannot be persuaded to allow Jim to re-emerge, the Faal persona will have to be destroyed."

"Kill Faal? How exactly do you do that? What about Jim?"

Spock looked over to Tarn, who seemed to be asleep. He lowered his voice even more. "I would prefer to think I might be able to reason with him, convince him that in allowing the Kirk persona to resurface, he will not only be protecting Jim in the only logical means left to him, but will be protecting himself, too. I hope to show him that subliminating Jim's persona is killing him by degrees, to show him that if Jim's persona dies, it is not likely Jonn's persona will survive either."

"But how? I don't. . ."

"Doc!" The guard had come from nowhere, shining his light into McCoy's face and nudging him with his boot.

"What is it?" McCoy replied sleepily, wondering if the guard bought the ruse or not.

"Garal wants you to see to one of the prisoners. Come with me."

Without a word McCoy rose and followed the guard, picking his way through sleeping prisoners, or those who pretended to sleep.

ooOOoo

Tarn lay quietly next to Jonn, his hand touching his hair. Tellarites, a naturally furry species, derived a physiological lowering of blood pressure by the stroking of another's fur, or having their fur stroked. A belligerent race by nature, this simple method soothed many an ego, released may unspent tensions in an un-antagonistic way. Thus was family harmony preserved, and civil wars averted, not to mention a few duels. Unfortunately, it was difficult to practice this custom with other species, firstly because there were many with only superficial hair (or worse, no hair at all), secondly because some species looked upon the gesture as overtly sexual. Fortunately, Faal seemed to understand the Tellarite need for hair-stroking, allowing Tarn to touch his head, and sometimes stroked Tarn's fur, as well. "It's sort of like rubbing a cat for a human," Faal had explained to Tarn. "You know the cat enjoys it, so you enjoy it, too."

But right now the touch of Faal's hair brought Tarn no comfort, nor did it sooth his nerves. Hadn't he just overheard Salek and Doc talk about _killing_ his friend? What kind of people were they, anyway? He must have heard it wrong – those two wouldn't hurt a fly. Tarn hesitated – he had seen anger smolder in the doc's eyes more than once. And the Vulcan seemed to be controlling some inner fire of his own. Perhaps it wouldn't' do to underestimate them.

But Jonn liked them. Jonn, who allowed himself no friendships (except with a Tellarite), who was leery of even the friendly guards – he _liked_ these two, even sought them out. Well, either Jonn was losing it, as Doc had said he feared, or he had a reason to trust them. So for now he wouldn't do anything, say anything; he would keep his own counsel.

But if they tried to lay a finger on his friend, he would kill them.

ooOOoo

The doctor thought he could discern whispers following after him, and a snigger or two. It didn't surprise him anymore. McCoy had been luckier than Spock and Faal in one sense. Spock was ridiculed constantly by one particular group of prisoners, a gang of sorts who picked on and roughed up the occasional prisoner behind the guards' backs. Recently a bucket of urine had been emptied on the Vulcan's head, splashing into his dinner bowl, as comments were made about 'strange ears growing on the two-legged cuara'. Spock did not react in any way except to prevent McCoy from engaging them in a brawl. Instead, Bones tried to bury his anger by futilely wiping at Spock's fouled shirt with his own.

Then there was Jonn. Touted by Garal as the 'pretty boy', fed beard growth inhibitors sporadically, he was followed around by guards who made him the subject of ribald or insulting remarks, even fondled occasionally in the open – anything to arouse his pride and anger. He lashed back at his tormentors each time, and was summarily beaten for his effrontery. But the hazel eyes held the defiance, and the defiance was Jim Kirk's.

As for McCoy – he was the 'doc'. After the incident the first day, everyone knew he was a medic of sorts, and though he had practically nothing to work with except his hands, he was called upon by guards and prisoners alike to try to help. Too often there was nothing he could do. Usually, in the case of prisoners, it was malnutrition, disease, injuries from cruel and repetitive punishment. Occasionally a guard would fall ill, but this rarely resulted in anything more than a day or two off-duty, the healthy body throwing off whatever ailment had latched on.

Whenever he had to baby-sit an ailing guard, McCoy was ordered to strip and bathe, having his own clothes cleaned and returned to him. They reeked of disinfectant, and his skin and scalp burned and chafed from the scrubbing he gave himself. But the worst part was returning to the yard after the crisis was over, knowing some of the other prisoners misunderstood his special treatment. McCoy had learned prisoners became pleasure-partners only if they wanted to – the Orions would not have an unwilling toy, male or female. _Too bad Jim didn't know that when Garal attacked him_, he mused. He might have escaped the hours of torture which followed. But the Orions knew the human species well, knew what made them angry – and what made them afraid. As for him, it was a false comfort that the prisoners, no matter how some of them might despise him for supposedly selling himself to the Orions, couldn't do too much to him because one day they might need his help.

The doctor had never been in this predicament before. Without realizing it, he had long enjoyed the role of benevolent healer, the man people looked up to and respected, because of his ability to bring healing to disease, sanity to madness. But now all that was gone. Some inmates hated him for who he was thought to be, and hated him even more because they could not show him how much they hated him. He saw how they avoided his eyes in the compound, how they smirked when a guard called on him, how they had a way of laying a finger to one ear when they walked by him. So they thought he was one of the camp prostitutes, did they? _Well, let them,_ he stormed inwardly. _Wait until they're sick and dying and they're begging for me; wait until they find out there isn't anything I can do for them! They won't be thinking about how my clothes smell after they vomit on me – they won't care that I've come to hate them as much as they. . ."_

McCoy stopped in mid-stride, horrified at his own feelings. Had it come to his, that he would let the opinions of others embitter him this way? Was this _his_ safety-valve, to become like them? _No – no!!_

The guard motioned him on and they entered a small building not far from the gate. At one end, on a low bed, was a young Andorian, his long, snowy hair falling over his blue shoulders in shiny white silkiness. It was obvious this one was favored, a camp prostitute. What's more, McCoy recognized him – in a group of roughly two hundred souls, he had soon come to know many of them by the things they occupied themselves with. This one was a favorite of Charesh, the sub-commander of the compound, and was left alone by the other guards. The clean clothes, well-tended body, sleek hair – all spoke of good food and adequate accommodations.

Yet the youth lay still on the bed, the blue skin several shades paler than normal, the pulse rapid and weak. Bones knelt and checked his eyes and found the pupils sluggish; the breath sounds in the lungs were congested. He lay his head directly over the heart and heard its faltering, lumbering contractions, wallowing in a sea of fluid. A congenital defect, no doubt. Certainly not a result of treatment here. _How terribly sad_.

"There's nothing I can do for him," he said, glancing up at Charesh who hovered nearby, looking nothing like a sub-commander at the moment. "Elevate him to make his breathing easier." He looked back down at the unconscious Andorian. "Hope he doesn't wake up."

About that time the young man's eyes flew open and he recognized McCoy. He grabbed the doctor's shirt in both hands and pulled himself up, fighting to say something, his eyes wide in fear. He began to choke and gasp, writhing in an effort to draw breath, as McCoy cradled him in his arms, trying to calm him with soothing words, rocking him as a mother would her child. But the youth arched his back and died with the horrified mask of denial on his face, mouth and eyes open wide, tongue protruding. Slowly the last bit of air escaped from his lungs as the diaphragm relaxed, and the body went limp. McCoy laid him down gently, knew he should close the staring eyes, push the jaw closed. But God help him, he couldn't do it. Suddenly the eyes were bulbous, the tongue a monstrous entity of its own, waiting to transform the doctor in some awful way if he were to touch it.

"I'm sorry," he said, standing up, his heart pounding. "I'm – God, I'm so sorry!" Without asking permission, he stumbled out of the shack, back across the yard. No guard approached him, but he didn't notice. He could only think of the staring eyes, the mute appeal for help, and his inability to give it. The death mask remained in front of him as he felt his way in the dark – the tears which ran down his face did nothing to wash away the vision.

At last he was near the crates. He felt, rather than saw, the location of Spock, Tarn and Faal, and longed to lay himself down among them. But he could not. He had failed the young man tonight, but he had failed in more than that. How could he presume to claim Spock's friendship after the way he had allowed this place to disillusion him? How could he hope to reclaim Jim's? _Doctor!_ The title was a misnomer, a joke of his own making, flung back in his face.

Spock heard the doctor approach; was surprised when he did not lay down near them. McCoy sat down next to a crate, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, rocking himself. In the darkness, Spock could hear his half-smothered sobs.

Part of Spock wanted to put his arms around the doctor and comfort him; part of him knew that he could not. Still the sight of the man, so tormented and helpless, was impossible to ignore. Spock rolled to his hands and knees and crawled over to where McCoy sat. He stifled an irritating cough and leaned back against he same crate, sitting just close enough so that their shoulders brushed against each other. At first McCoy continued to rock as though he were unaware of the Vulcan's presence, but gradually the rocking slowed and the man relaxed against the support of the crate, allowing his shoulder to rest against the Vulcan's. Through the contact, Spock could read McCoy's grief, the bitterness he turned toward himself. Spock understood the physician's need to heal, and the agony of being unable to do it. McCoy was still crying, though more quietly now, and Spock would remain awake until he knew for a certainty that his human friend had once again found a measure of peace in sleep.

A few feet away, unnoticed, Jonn woke from a deep, dreamless state, rubbing the sore spot where shoulder met neck. There were a few seconds of disorientation before he realized where he was and saw, dimly, Salek and Doc sitting against a crate. Salek was comforting the doc in some way – Jonn didn't question how he knew, he just did. Somewhere deep within him, he wanted to comfort the medic, too. He wanted so much to be able to trust them – he liked them already; they weren't like the others.

But how stupid would that be! Trust could lead to betrayal of the Hidden One and even more anguish. Garal had been noticing him again, too much – the black eye was evidence of that. Soon there would be another public approach, like the one before. He rubbed the healed scars on his wrists, bleak reminders of the day he had hung suspended from a rope while Garal mocked and humiliated him in front of leering guards and prisoners, threatening him with the Ripper.

Yet again, perhaps it wasn't so much a matter of trust after all. If he had to admit it, he probably _did_ trust them, as much as he did Tarn. It was just that friendship ran its own special risks. Attaching himself to Salek and Doc would cause him to stand out even more to Garal. Garal would be jealous, Garal. . .

_What the hell do I care what Garal thinks?_ Anger welled up in him from the Hidden One so violently he couldn't quell it. _The bastard'll have to kill me before. . ._

"Center!" Jonn cried, placing both hands on his temples. The _kas t'al _ discipline held sway once again, and Kirk was pushed back, once again.

Spock looked over to where Faal slept. He thought he heard him cry out in his sleep, but the link remained inactive, closed. . .

Empty.

He reached along the link, probing for Kirk, but found a looming quiet. He reached further. In his mind, down a long tunnel, sprawled a figure in command gold. Kirk lay as if exhausted, his breathing laboured.

_Soon_, Spock projected along the frail link, not knowing if Kirk could hear him or not. _Soon, my friend, the time is coming when I will act._ With effort, Kirk's eyes opened and he nodded slowly, once, before closing them again.

Hours later McCoy stirred in his sleep, disturbed by the Vulcan's fresh onslaught of racking coughs, but did not wake. Spock allowed himself to inch his body closer to the doctor; it was logical, after all, to try to stay warm on a cold night. But as he glanced again to where Faal lay, all too aware of the slow withdrawal of the Kirk persona, there was as little to warm the creeping chill which grew in his heart as there was to still the hollow coughs which shook his body.


	8. Chapter 7

Empty Spaces

Chapter Seven 

_Stardate: Shoot, old habits die hard. I don't know what day it is. It's today, that much I know. They say time is relative, but I say time is nonexistent. We do what we can to mark it._

_I'm keeping an eye on Spock. He's developed a harsh cough that's definitely bronchial, though without my scanner I can't pinpoint it much more than that. And God forbid I should try to get him to let me listen to his chest! He's trying hard not to cough in front of me, and that's a sure sign there's something wrong. However, for the moment he's holding his own, so I can only watch and wait._

_Two more prisoners subjected to the Ripper last week. One of them – the one who returned – seems normal enough, though I've caught him listening in on prisoners' and guards' conversations alike, then running off to Garal's quarters to 'report', no doubt. It's my belief and Spock's that not a few of the gang members have been in the chair, too. Something about the thing seems to be able to lock on to weaknesses in the personality, augmenting them; hence the cruelty and barbarity we see among certain prisoners and guards. It's all speculation at this point; it seems the only way to discover the true nature of the device is getting first-hand experience. Neither Spock nor myself have volunteered – it was enough being scanned by that thing the first week we were here; the sight of the chair alone gave me the creeps._

_There are a few little bright corners in this hell-hole. Some of the guards, like Chandri, are decent fellows enough. They can't fraternize with us, of course, but they slip us food now and again, and I find a few simple medical supplies in my rag box from time to time. Couldn't come from anyone but them. It's hard for them, though, because Garal has his eye on them through his spies._

_Funny. Things have settled into a type of old Terran society here. There are those who go about their daily routines and try to keep out of trouble. Then there are two _grachtas_, or gangs, that vie for territory against each other: it's almost laughable, except they often involve the innocent. They're the ones who pick on people who stand out too much. Tarn tells me they've killed before, though I haven't seen it sine I've been here. Last there are the 'special' prisoners – Spock, Faal and me. I haven't figured that out yet, beyond what Spock has told me. Yeah, so Ganezh has forbidden Faal's death, and subsequently ours. But what confuses me is that we're subjected to the same conditions everyone else is, so eventually, God help us, we will die. We're dying now. The only other consideration I can come up with is this Ripper thing. We still have prisoners disappearing, as I've already described, and there is always the rumour that they've been subjected to the higher settings of the machine. What's so frightening is that, once subjected, we don't see many of them again. I don't know if they're dead or if they've been sent somewhere for observation. Tarn says the Orion word for the thing is _'jhad-zreer', _Mind-Ripper, but the vernacular is just Ripper._

_I've asked myself why I bother to write all of this down. A cuara will likely get it for its nest; probably some guard will take it away from me, or it will be used for toilet paper after I'm dead. Maybe I do it for my own sanity – anyway, they may be helpful for debriefing if I ever get off this rock._

_Tarn, the Tellarite, is an interesting character. I've known a few Tellarites in my time, and frankly, didn't care for a single one of them. A more belligerent, in-your-face species I've never come across. But Tarn's different. Well maybe not – maybe I've just been able to see him through Faal's eyes. They're an interesting pair. According to Tarn, Faal came to the compound sick from a partially healed wound. Left on his own, he'd have probably died. Tarn says Jonn suffered from nightmares when he slept, which he did a lot of when he first arrived – so naturally Tarn soothed him the only way he knew how, by stroking his hair. This must have made some connection in Faal's subconscious, because it did quiet him, and the trust ad friendship seemed to develop naturally after that._

_Faal told me himself that it was Tarn who cut him down after the torture and tended his wounds. Tarn and Tarn alone can touch Faal to show affection._

_So it was with some pleasure I began to see Tarn make overtures to Spock and me, after our initial mistrust, that is. At first he tried to involve us in games or plays some of the prisoners put together. Much as I hate to admit it, we resisted him at first. We didn't know the structure of the prison society well enough yet and, unfortunately, everyone was suspect, even Faal. We still don't know where that boy's coming from, exactly. I see less and less of Jim in him, and more of Jonn._

_Can't help but like him, though; even find myself envying Tarn his close friendship with him. I guess I miss. . ._

McCoy was interrupted by the subject of his log entry. Faal stood by him, smiling down upon the quickly growing pile of papers. "Going to publish that?"

McCoy grinned and stuffed the log entries into a sack, not ready to divulge the contents to Faal. "Maybe. Stuff like this can be so much dribble."

"Or best-seller material. Better hang on to it, Doc."

_I have every intention of doing so_, thought McCoy. He cocked his head, finding it uncomfortable squinting up at Jonn, who stood with the sun just behind his head. "You need something from me?"

"I do, sir. You don't suppose I've forgotten your promise to help out on the Shirley team, do you?"

"Oh. That." McCoy had somehow allowed himself to be roped into an ongoing competition between two groups of prisoners, the 'Shirleys' and the 'Temples', laughingly named not so much after the famous 1930's actress, but for the drink named after her. The physical condition of the people who made up the teams was explanation enough for that nomer. This week it was to be tug of war. "Do I have to?"

"Don't worry, Doc. I'll put you way back so you won't get dragged too badly." Faal put his arm around the doctor's shoulders and lifted him to a standing position. He noticed McCoy's grimace of pain at the sudden movement and his eyes filled with concern. "What's wrong? Has anyone been after. . ."

McCoy smiled quickly, placing his hand to his lower back. "You know how it is sleeping on the ground, Jonn. I'm just getting too old for a perpetual camp-out, that's all. Now you go on to the meet. I'll be along as soon as I put this away." He held up the sack containing the log.

Faal watched the doc walk away. He knew one of the gang members had been making it hard for him lately. Now it appeared there had been a beating. _Damn!_ He would have to be more diligent in his watching out for his new friends, just as he was diligent over the Hidden One. No must ever, ever hurt the people he protected. No one must ever penetrate the barriers, the secret walls, or all would be lost – all. . .

He closed his eyes painfully for a moment, hand moving across his brow, before he straightened. Better to concentrate on today's game. Jerking at his worn-out tunic, he turned on his heel and approached the players.

The games were a way out of the reality of this place, if only temporarily. Even the belligerent guards enjoyed them, taking the opportunity to place bets among themselves, so fear of punishment was set aside when they played. At least temporarily, the games did away with discomforts and ailments, and hunger. The spirit of competition welled up as Jonn took his place on his team, and suddenly it didn't seem to matter so much that there were holes in his boots.

ooOOoo

Days.

Weeks.

Spock had lost track of the time – he, who had been able to correctly give the minute, _the second_, if his captain asked for it. But it was only now. And sometimes yesterdays.

Never tomorrows.

Spock and McCoy had together determined they had been in the compound at least two months, asteroid time, perhaps a little less by Earth standards. The beard growth inhibitor had begun to wear off and both men were sprouting half-hearted beards. McCoy joked that if only the stuff would go ahead and wear off their faces, at least, would be warm at night.

But McCoy was running out of jokes. Daily Spock watched him bear the brunt of the gang's malevolence, tending ailments almost every night. Often he was called out for no reason for the pleasure of those who enjoyed depriving him of sleep. Along with the intolerable food, it was taking a physical toll on the human. The Vulcan feared McCoy had been beaten, more than once, when caught alone; Bones had begun to favor his left lower back, walking in a bent shuffle. Though he had tried to conceal them, Spock had seen the dark bruises when they turned in their clothes for decontamination. The ever-slim physician had lost an alarming amount of weight in a short time, and Spock was getting worried.

As for his own deteriorating health, he chose to ignore it. No vegetables in the diet spoke ill for a Vulcan and, though he could go without food for a longer period than a human, the congestion in his lungs had begun to tell on his stamina. McCoy fretted over him whenever he coughed, so he restrained himself whenever possible, at least when the doctor was in earshot. That was becoming a harder task, however, as breathing got increasingly more difficult in the humid air of day, the cold damp of night. Then, too. . .

There was still the link.

Spock had maintained the _forr t'al_ without respite ever since the fist contact months ago, an enormous strain McCoy recognized long before they left the safety of the _Enterprise_. After coming to the compound, Faal's resistance to it drew the already tenuous line between Jim and himself finer and finer, until every facet of Kirk's character was distilled into one crystal droplet at the end of it. The thread stretched further away with each passing day. Communication had ceased – all Spock could do now was maintain the thread.

He felt as if he were holding on for dear life.

And how could he forget Faal himself? His own identify, since its creation months ago in Kirk's _kas t'al_, had grown with the experiences of his life – _Jonn's_ life. Could Spock, in all conscience, throw that away to reclaim Kirk? Was Faal somehow no longer a part of Kirk, but _separate_? In any event, what happened in the compound daily was Jonn's experience – maybe Kirk's. Spock did not like what he saw.

In the weeks following the nerve-pinch episode, Faal had remained friendly, chatting about mundane matters, occasionally letting slip a phrase or tone of voice which were distinctly the captain's, and offering help and advice which were gladly accepted. In his own right, Faal was a likeable fellow. Kirk had created a light-hearted, roguish man who was inclined to look after himself first, but was still inexorably tied to Jim. Under the circumstances, it would be impossible _not_ to like him. As they grew more accustomed to Jonn, he grew more comfortable with them. The bravado he had exhibited upon their first meeting was dropped, along with pretense. What was left was an emaciated human being who was running on little more than will, and that fragmented, torn between two identities. Faal's shoulder and upper arm muscles were dwindling away, the cheekbones protruding. His tattered Orion uniform pants were held to his body with bits of discarded rope, waist and hips too narrow to hold them up.

Yet he was who he was. And that haunted Spock and McCoy the most: _knowing_ who he was, and watching him die before their eyes.

Faal was watching them, too. He began bringing them food, stolen in the night from the food shack as friendly guards looked the other way; defending Spock if the gangs bothered him; waiting, unsleeping, for McCoy when he returned from a night call. Jonn saw that Spock and McCoy were dying the slow death, too, and the Vulcan could feel the man's anguish for them without need of the link.

So it was with building anxiety Spock and McCoy watched the encroaching advances of Garal. Jonn had told them about the day Garal strung him up, alternately caressing, then beating him, in front of all. McCoy and Spock had exchanged silent glances as he told the story, their own past experiences confirmed but unwelcome in the light that Jonn had indeed gone through what they had sensed.

Until Spock and McCoy arrived, apparently, Garal had had his fill of compound life and was even ready to risk defiance of the absent Ganezh. But with their coming, and their association with the Alien by way of Faal, Garal's old fear returned: fear of retaliation by the all-powerful Ganezh, fear of having the Ripper taken away from him, maybe even being used on him. With the fear came a renewal of Garal's self-hate, a loathing which must find expression.

It did.

Long assemblies lasting a day, causing even the strongest to stumble to their knees, only to meet with more punishment; food deprivation for the slightest infraction; if one disobeyed, the whole camp had disobeyed. Prisoners began to fight over their food, the weaker ones losing their meager potion to the stronger, usually gang members. Some of the prisoners tried to share their food, yet deaths were becoming more frequent. McCoy was called out more often than ever.

Yet Garal was not satisfied. There were no prisoners coming in – a sure sign Ganezh was gone for good – but still the officials would not allow the C.O. to abandon the compound. He fretted that his own resources were dwindling, since he couldn't oversee his personal holdings while marooned on the asteroid, and his temper became shorter yet. Even the guards began to suffer under his command. What was worse, some of the camp favorites were disappearing: dead or shipped elsewhere. A couple of higher-ranked guards started taking unwilling pleasure-partners from among the prisoners, something totally alien to Orion culture, and McCoy was soon having to treat a whole new range of injuries.

Spock was convinced more than ever that the Ripper device, whether overtly or in some other way, was affecting the very people who wielded it. Tangible lines were now drawn among the guards; Spock wondered how long it would be before there would be open revolt, and whether there would be a means for the prisoners to escape. Yet that seemed unlikely. Outside the atmospheric perimeter was vacuum and death.

It was late afternoon. The long assembly was finally dismissed and the prisoners plodded away to wait out the rest of the day and the long night after that, since once again they had been deprived of their one meal. Spock lay near McCoy, no longer trying to hide his weakness. He coughed harshly, a slow fire burning in his lungs, and his hand came away flecked with specks of green. McCoy saw it, looked at Spock wearily, and turned away. Later Spock saw smudges where the doctor had wiped away the tears; it was strangely comforting.

Jonn sat nearby, chewing at the base of a thumb. The once-manicured nails were ragged now, blackened with months of living in filth, the hands appearing smaller, shrunken, like the presence of the man himself. Not for the first time, Spock pondered the idea of whether, with Kirk all but totally subliminated, how Faal's persona could be enough to sustain them both.

_That is the answer!_

Spock sat up, bringing on another bout of coughing, but his mind was racing.

Faal was incomplete without Kirk, would eventually _die_ without Kirk. He had considered this before, eons ago, but now the idea blazed with new life. He had the key to reaching Faal all along. Now it was only a question of how.

And when.

ooOOoo

"Salek, have you seen Tarn?" Faal ran over to the crates, out of breath, panic in his eyes. "I can't find him anywhere."

"Yes, I did see him, over two hours ago," said Spock, noticing the human's shaking torso. "He was approached by a guard who asked him a question and they left together." The episode had seem quiet enough, Spock reflected. Tarn had gone with the guard willingly, with no indication there was anything to be alarmed about. The agitation of Faal puzzled the Vulcan.

"He _left_!" Faal shouted. "What guard was it?"

"Sub-commander Charish's aide – Cestral, I believe. Is there some reason. . ."

"Oh God, they've got him. God, God, they've got him hooked up to that Thing. . ." Faal balled his hands into fists and started to run toward the storage shed.

This was trouble. Certain trouble, and Spock was not prepared to let Faal take Kirk blindly into it. He went after Faal, finding it hard to catch up with him, but managed to stop him before he could get to the building. Two guards by the door raised their weapons threateningly. Spock shot a look of warning to Faal, shaking his head.

But it was all he could do to prevent the human from charging the door, guards or no, for from the interior of the shack could be heard a low humming – along with the sounds of inhuman groans.

ooOOoo

All afternoon Faal sat next to the crates, his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the storage shed door. More than once Spock saw him lower his head to his knees, only to jerk it up again and continue his vigil. It was when the food shack was opened up and lines had begun to form that they saw guards remove the lifeless body of Tarn from the building.

ooOOoo

_Personal Log. Me again. Faal is mourning the death of his friend, Tarn. He was subjected to the Ripper this afternoon and didn't survive the ordeal. I don't think he was meant to. Spock managed to stop Faal from getting himself killed at the hands of the guards, but when they returned home Jonn smashed several crates with his bare hands before we cold calm him down._

_Chandri came to me just a while ago and cautioned me to watch out for Garal. The C.O. is insane, apparently, filled with hate for this alien Ganezh guy. I have the feeling the alien's influence will be hard to shake for some of these people, guards and prisoners. It's my own opinion that Garal has subjected himself (or Ganezh made him) to the device, maybe even some of his officers. There's potential for controlling sentient individuals by controlling their thought patterns. I can't believe it's merely an interrogation device – there are plenty of those for the having. Based on Faal's description of Ganezh's tactics, it wouldn't surprise me if the alien hasn't given the Orions something that, for all intents and purposes, does exactly what he would do if he were still here._

_Spock is sitting with Jonn now. He hasn't spoken to anyone, but I did see him reach and pat Spock on the back during a recent fit of coughing._

_The camp is quiet now. _

_Many of us will miss Tarn. . ._

ooOOoo

Night approached. The signal screeched; quiet ensued. McCoy put down his stylus and paper, no longer able to see what he was writing. He had lost track of the time now – neither he nor Spock could recall how long they had been in the compound. A rough calendar he had marked on one of the crates was demolished in Faal's grief over Tarn. McCoy hadn't found the desire in him to begin another one. Two weeks – three weeks since Tarn died? Four?

It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore except trying to stay warm, finding something to eat once in a while, and staying clear of gang members. Unabashedly, the doctor pressed his back against the Vulcan's, relishing the slow fire of Spock's fevered body.

But he couldn't sleep; knew without having to ask that Spock, too, lay awake, along with Jonn. Three days without food, his stomach ached and twisted with unrelieved hunger. He lay still, hoping his exhaustion would overcome his empty stomach and let him sleep. Soon he dozed off.

After a long time, Spock saw Jonn get up and sneak over to the food shack. A few minutes later he was back, kneeling by him, bowl in hand. "This is all I could get. You and Doc share it. I'll go back. . ."

"You're going nowhere, Faal," said a raspy voice, cutting through the darkness. "You've gotten pretty cocky, thinking none of us see you coming and going, helping your Federation friends." The voice came from an unrecognizable shape in the gloom, but McCoy recognized it – Garal's voice, poorly disguised.

A light flashed, blinding Spock and McCoy. They were hauled roughly to their feet, then flung to the ground again. Garal kicked them repeatedly as guards restrained a struggling Faal, who pleaded with him to stop.

"You had better find better people than Faal to keep company with from now on - if you want to avoid getting more of the same," Garal warned as he looked down at the two Federation prisoners. "You thought you had him for yourself," he whispered, nudging McCoy with his boot. "Well, you _don't_."

_Definitely nuts_, McCoy thought vaguely. He couldn't focus, his head throbbing from the beating, but he could plainly hear the unmistakable sound of the guards beating Faal as they hauled him away, Garal following close behind. Desperately, McCoy raised himself to one elbow. "You can't play that game again, Garal," he shouted, hoping to encourage Jonn, who was still fighting the guards. "Everyone in this camp knows you couldn't rape a peanut if you tried!" The doctor knew his outburst could earn him another beating, but Garal made no move to reprimand him. He ignored McCoy as if he had never spoken at all.

McCoy pushed himself upright, looking around uneasily. Something was wrong – horribly wrong. He broke into a cold sweat, feeling suddenly sick. Members of the gang were talking freely and the guards were not stopping them. A few laughed openly, the vindictive tone of their voices making the meaning of Faal's detention all too clear to the doctor.

All eyes seemed to be on Faal as he was led away in the bright starlight to the storage shed. Bones scrambled painfully over to Spock, grabbing his arm. "Spock, you know what they're going to do!" The Vulcan made no reply, but his arm was like steel.

"Mr. Favorite's finally going to get taken down a peg or two," joked someone in the dark.

McCoy wanted to cry out, but he had no voice – he was in the grip of a terrible fear of what was to soon happen. He watched as Garal and the guards took Faal into the shed, and stared dazedly at the closed door. Slowly, blinking hard, he turned to Spock. The Vulcan's breathing, already harsh in his illness, had worsened. The heat of fever, felt through the ragged shirt, burned under the doctor's touch.

But it was the Vulcan's open look of disbelief that was most alarming. "What is it?" McCoy shook his arm but Spock only blinked. "Tell me, dammit!" Bones yelled, shaking Spock harder.

"The link," Spock gasped. "Jim is calling – out to me, he. . ." Spock moved as if he were restrained by force, struggling against invisible bonds. "I'm here, Jim – here!"

_Spock, help me – there are three of them. . ._

_I will, Jim. Hold on to me._

Without thinking, Bones wrapped his arms around his friend, Spock's sudden silence more ominous than the open show of fear on the once stoic face. "Help him," he murmured, wondering as he said it if he really had the right to ask this of the Vulcan. For the first time in Leonard McCoy's life, he desperately wished that he was a touch telepath so he could know what was happening in the Vulcan's mind.

_Use the link, Jim. Block all sensation – I'll show you the way._

_Spock, I'm trying – but he's interfering – stop it - NO, Faal!_

Another voice exploded into Spock's mind: _Somebody help me – I can't let them do this!_

"Faal," Spock gasped.

"Faal?" mouthed McCoy, shaken. "He's scared to death of that machine, Spock. He'll get in the way; he'll. . ."

"No, please!" Spock's voice changed timbre, the quality becoming like Kirk's – no – _Faal's_ voice. In the Vulcan features, the fear Faal had been living with since he came to prison quickly became Spock's reality, and he was growing rigid with it.

"Fight it, man!" yelled McCoy, somehow hoping Kirk would hear him through the link. "You're James T. Kirk, dammit! Fight!!"

Spock straightened, the fear receding as the jaw hardened, fists coming up clenched, the knuckles bone-white. "Don't touch me," he whispered, "or I'll make you wish you hadn't."

Jim Kirk had emerged at last, and the doctor was getting a first-hand view through Spock.

But McCoy's attention was pulled away from Spock as sounds of a struggle echoed across he yard from the shed. Shadows flickered across the shaded window and there was the sound of furniture breaking.

Spock swayed as if he were the one being struck, manhandled, and McCoy had to support him to prevent him from toppling over. He was groaning audibly, his body shaking, and the doctor grew more alarmed than ever. Spock had already been through so much; he was very ill, emaciated and starving, locked in a link spanning months which drained him constantly. How could he go on expecting his friend to keep this up? Yet as Bones asked himself this question, he knew the answer. Spock would ask no less of _him_.

"Can't you help him, Spock? He's got to hold on! You're all he's got now."

McCoy felt the man in his arms rallying for another try, felt his own pride and affection for the Vulcan well up within him. "Please try, Spock," he pleaded, the tears of desperation and grief tracking his face, and he held on to Spock as much for his own sake as for Spock's.

Spock heard McCoy, felt the man's own pain and fear through his embrace, though he could not physically respond. He could only _experience_ what Kirk experienced as the men had flung Jonn into the room, trying to force him into a chair – a chair with straps. He was there with Kirk as McCoy's encouragement brought Jim out at last, livid with the memory of two other chairs on Tantalus and Elba II, fighting with every bit of strength he possessed against the inevitable – and he would remain with his friend until the end. . .

_Jim, hang on to me, focus on __me__!_

Anger, rage – fear. The emotions washed over the Vulcan like high tide and he reeled from the onslaught. Yet he sensed Jim's concern in the midst of his own raging emotions.

_You're sick, Spock - this will kill you! I can't ask this of you!_

_I can – manage. You must concentrate. . ._ Spock winced as a guard backhanded Kirk.

McCoy held him, willing his support to any and all through the touch.

_Spock, sever the link._

_Illogical, Captain – that would prevent me from. . ._ Spock cried out as he doubled over in pain, the guard's kick sending Kirk's agony screaming over the link like a tightly strung wire.

McCoy loosened his grip enough to grab Spock's hand, finding the fingers cold. He chafed them roughly, sure now that his touch was some comfort to the Vulcan. "It's all right, Spock. Remember what you told me once? That pain is a thing of the mind? Remember!" The doctor repeated the phrase, shaking Spock a little until he straightened again, holding his midsection with the unencumbered hand.

_Spock, sever the link. I don't know how long I can – oh, no._

Spock felt the incredulous emotions of Kirk change abruptly to horror as the captain began to experience personally the long-held fears of Faal – gnawing, guilt-ridden fears that he might reveal everything under the influence of the Ripper. Jim Kirk had never experienced such overwhelming emotions before, had never realized what those emotions would demand of him when he was weak and injured.

Neither, unfortunately, had Mr. Spock. He felt the link weaken. Even amidst his own anguish, so did Kirk.

_Quick, before it's too late. Sever the link._

_I – cannot._ Spock still fought to hold on, but felt his strength slipping away, the link singing with tautness. Spock could feel Kirk being strapped into the chair, the connections being made, probes piercing the skin. . .

_You must. Spock, please. . ._

The machine was turned on. Strange new currents poured into the synapse paths of Kirk's brain, bludgeoning, battering. Kirk's will wavered, tottered on the brink.

Then he opened his mouth in a silent scream and gave himself up to the torment.

Spock's face contorted in pain; he wrapped his arms around his body. He felt Kirk try to dissolve the link himself, failing as he was caught up in the physical and mental anguish caused by the encroaching Ripper. He felt Jonn again, suddenly, as Jim's alter-persona tried to dissolve the link as well. He felt it as his own strength ebbed – the months of maintaining the link having utterly drained him at last – and the unbearable emotions of his captain were shredding the last of his reserve.

"Spock? What's going on?" McCoy felt the steel bands in the Vulcan's body begin to go slack, as if a vital force were being sucked away. The shed was ominously quiet now, and there were no more shadows.

"If I hold on, I could lose Jim," Spock moaned. "I could lose him, Doctor; he's so weak."

McCoy saw that Spock himself was dangerously drained, his breathing nearly negligible, his body shaking violently. Bones realized then that he had been wrong to pressure him to maintain the link. "Break it off, then. You can't help Jim now, but maybe you can later, when he's _really_ going to need you. Let it go, Spock, before it kills you both!"

There was logic in the doctor's words, but the friendship – the bonds, the empathy – would that all be thrown away now?

_Spock_.Kirk's mind was slipping away, wandering in a childhood nightmare of dark tunnels which led further and further away into the darkness. He was making a last effort to reach Spock before he was no longer able to. _Please, Spock! Break it – break the link. That's – an order. . ._

Logic spoke. It _was_ time to break it. The Faal persona was dominating again as Kirk fell further into the recesses of a runaway mind discipline, and Spock would soon be pulled into the abyss. But to leave his friend. . .

_Damn the order, Jim,_ he thought even as he sagged with exhaustion. But logic continued to speak.

In the shack, the Ripper bypassed the Faal persona, brushing it aside as if it were a trifle. It relayed all resistance factors in the human's brain synapses, and zeroed in on a central reading, taking Kirk's memories and twisting them into new and brilliant ones. His family was brutalized, tortured, his father a drunkard who was murdered in the streets of New York City, his mother a haggard streetwalker who died after giving birth to two bastard sons. . .

Tears of rage and grief ran down the Vulcan's face. He cried out Kirk's protests over and over again, but the altered memories played on and on, digging themselves deeper and deeper into the hidden mind of James Kirk. Still holding on, McCoy felt an overwhelming sense of despair envelope him like a cold rain.

ooOOoo

Faal/Kirk sat in the chair, jerking with physical and mental pain. Until now Faal, the Protector, had been paralyzed with fear, numb with panic at what the machine might do to his defenses. But the machine had merely touched upon him – apparently its design was to reach the core of the main persona, its source, to seek it out and utterly destroy it.

Perhaps the designer of the device had not yet contended with two personalities in one being. Perhaps that was why Ganezh tired of Faal on the Orion ship. Jonn knew there were already an infinite number of mazes he had contrived; what were a few more? The Hidden One would more than likely remain hidden forever, but what did it matter as long as he lived? That was Faal's ultimate goal, his duty – to see that the Hidden One survived. Resolution to see it through until the end filled him, and he fled down a long corridor into the deepest recesses of Kirk's battered mind.

As he approached the man in the gold uniform, he vaguely realized he no longer knew his name. The man was too weak to stand, or even raise an arm to defend himself. Faal grabbed Kirk in a choke-hold, cutting off his air supply, holding him patiently until there was no more struggling. . .

Spock's head flew up, his face registering horror. He brought his fingers to his temples, feeling his control vortex away. As he spun into unconsciousness the link wavered and Kirk, feeling himself melt away like wax, instinctively reached out one last time. . .

And failed.

The tenuous thread finally snapped – the _forr t'al_ ended. Spock collapsed, and McCoy held onto him, rocking slowly, while his eyes remained glued to the shed.

ooOOoo

The camp was silent now, laughs and jeers long since stopped, and an uneasy quiet pervaded the area. McCoy continued his vigil, holding the unconscious Vulcan, and began to consider the fact that this time there may be no escape for him or his friends. Perhaps he had just witnessed the passing of the first of them.

Who would be next?

Would it really matter?

After a long time, the guards came sauntering out of the shed, laughing and elbowing each other. Garal, no longer attempting to disguise himself, emerged afterwards and strode confidently to the C.O. shack. So Garal had finally had his way with Faal – not the sexual abuse he had so often threatened, but far worse. This was mental rape: he had gone into a man's mind and twisted it, tortured it until he was satiated. McCoy felt bile rise in his throat. He wanted to put his hands around Garal's neck, to experience the slow, meticulous pressure he would place against the glottis and sequiglottis. . .

He forced himself to stop thinking that way, to concentrate on his friends, to forget about hate for a little while and watch for Jonn's exit, ready to help him if he could.

But Faal did not come out. McCoy cursed himself for hoping, one brief moment, that he might mercifully be dead. But looking down at the Vulcan who leaned against him, he knew that Spock would claim that wish for himself alone.

ooOOoo

_Captain's Log, Supplemental. Commander Montgomery Scott reporting. Nearly six weeks have passed since we began checking out the sectors of asteroid belts surrounding the dwarf star. I can't help but wonder if this system was once comprised of living planets, with populations scattered across their surfaces. But that is needless speculation, since all that is left now are the remains of some ancient cataclysm._

_We are currently monitoring sector five, and have been rewarded with a bit of unusual activity. Captain Fletcher and I are scheduled to talk at 14:30 hours._

"My people have been scanning the activity in this asteroid belt," said Scott, pointing to the tactical map on the wall screen. All Orion ships but one have pulled out of this sector, resuming what appear to be normal trading runs in the old routes."

"All but one," pondered Fletcher. "Has it been identified?" she ventured, already knowing the answer.

"Not possible. It, like all Orion ships, carries no ID beacon, nor does it have any visible insignia on its hull."

"Then how _do_ they keep track of each other?"

"I suspect the ship is known by its captain, ma'am. The captain's name. I don't know anythin' about their culture, but old Scottish clans – er, groups of families – were known by the name of the head of that clan. The headship passed on from father to son. . ."

"Until there were no more sons?" Fletcher had a wicked twinkle in her eye.

"Uh, somethin' like that. It was a long time ago, you understand."

Fletcher laughed aloud, the first time Scotty had seen her do so, and he found himself smiling back.

"Captain Fletcher, I must ask you this, but I canna go off the record, seein' as how Starfleet is all awaggle about this alien presence we've been lookin' for." He paused. He was taking a big chance with this young officer, but his instincts told him that time was running out for Spock and McCoy. No communication from them was the same as klaxons and red beacons to his way of thinking.

"You're saying you want this conversation officially recorded, Mr. Scott?" Fletcher folded her arms and looked at him with a wisdom which far exceeded her experience. It was that, more than anything else, which decided him.

"Aye, lass," he sighed, unconsciously slipping into the vernacular, and watched as the captain opened an official log. This was going to be touchy, he well knew, but it would not do to have any question about it later. He only hoped the ensuing conversation would not be the catalyst of an abrupt end to their careers. "Let's begin with our orders from Starfleet, which I have here. We'll go over 'em point for point and then, based on our observations and findings, we'll plan our course of action. Agreed?"

Fletcher stifled a smile and leaned forward in her chair, assuming a subdued and serious demeanor. "Strictly by the book, Mr. Scott. That's what we scientists and engineers thrive on, after all."

ooOOoo

Spock woke in the cold dawn, the heat of fever doing little to warm his trembling body. There was movement across the compound – a man was being brought from the storage shed by two guards, his head lolling forward on his chest, legs dragging behind in the dirt. It was Faal. Spock looked away from the oncoming sight, filled with shame and revulsion. Self-loathing and recrimination welled up within the Vulcan as the evidence of betrayal was thrown to the ground in front of him.

Faal lay where he fell, face-down in the dirt. Spock glanced at his prone body, wanting desperately to help his friend, but the screaming accusations in his mind held him fast. Gently, he touched McCoy on the back to waken him, pointing to Faal. Bones' face twisted with grief and he hurried to Faal's side.

Spock watched as the doctor lifted the ragged shirt to reveal bruises and cuts, felt along the ribcage to locate the fractured ribs, explored the scalp for contusions. **Ut w**hen McCoy turned Jonn over on his back to examine the marks where the device had been hooked to him, Spock could not bring himself to observe the examination further.

The physician began to curse vehemently, his anger grating on the broken edges of Spock's own uncontrolled emotions. A few nearby prisoners stirred, peering curiously at the spectacle near the crates. One or two gang members started toward them, but when Spock stood up, they thought better of it. The Vulcan could do that much for Faal, at least.

There was nothing he had done – could do – for Kirk.

"Here, Doc." Bones looked up into the sympathetic eyes of Chandri, who risked punishment by bringing a bucket of water to the physician. He looked down at the unconscious man. "At least he's alive," he commented before hurrying away.

_At least he's alive_. Shocked out of his daze by that, McCoy hurriedly rifled through his stockpile of rags to minister to Faal's injuries. There was evidence of a concussion and broader evidence of a thorough beating. There was a deep, jagged cut along Faal's left forearm which could become infected in this filthy environment, and there was of course the lingering threat of pneumonia or one of many types of secondary infections. But it was the mental and emotional damage which concerned him the most. How would Faal handle things when he woke up – what had happened to Jim in the midst of it all? Certainly Kirk had emerged – in a heated rage – but what had it really accomplished but a beating on top of everything else?

"Damn stubborn – _captain_," he muttered, remembering how he had called Jim forth himself, urging him to fight back. Unbidden tears welled in his blue eyes before he blinked them away. No time for that now. Faal was going to need him, and by God, he was going to be there.

Full daylight broke upon the camp, and the assembly was sounded. Spock and McCoy left Faal and rose to fall in, but stopped when a guard hurried over to the human and began to yell at him, nudging him with his boot.

"Sir," said Spock deferentially, "he is unconscious. We will attend to him after assembly."

"My orders are for _all_ prisoners to attend assembly," growled the guard, one of Garal's picked officers, and kicked Faal angrily. Jonn groaned but did not stir. The guard did not see McCoy advance menacingly, Spock holding him back.

"Then allow us to bring him between us," offered the Vulcan, moving to pick Jonn up. The guard strong-armed the weakened officer, forcing him back into McCoy's arms, and proceeded to kick the helpless prisoner again and again.

McCoy yelled with rage and threw himself on the guard, knocking him to the ground. The Orion quickly leapt to this feet and delivered a well-aimed blow to McCoy's lower back, just over the left kidney, and the doctor dropped like a stone. The guard never had a chance for a second blow, however, for he found his head locked in the arms of the Vulcan, who had moved in behind him. The guard felt the inexorable pressure on the vertebrae just below the base of his skull and fought to lean into it, but the counter-pressure of Spock's other arm relentlessly forced the head in the other direction, fulfilling the slow, steady methodology of _t'al-shaya_, ritual xenocide. The Orion, standing on his toes, was futilely clutching at Spock's arms, encroaching unconsciousness beginning to make its claim.

Spock was vaguely aware of the sound of running footsteps, of blows to his head and back, but the experience was distant, as if all physical senses had been dulled. He concentrated his entire being on completing the ritual, the merciful disseverment of vertebrae and spinal cord after the victim had been rendered unconscious. Every repressed disappointment, every blocked reaction to dashed hopes and futile search, every controlled bout of anger, desire, humiliation, fear – _everything_ – centered on this one hapless Orion guard.

But the bows continued and he felt his strength leaving him. His vision tunneled, as had his single-mindedness, and his last conscious thought was dismay that he had failed to complete the job.


	9. Chapter 8

Empty Spaces

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, offered encouragement, and prodded me when I took too long to post. You guys are great!_

Chapter Eight 

Acting captain Montgomery Scott and _U.S.S. Aurelan_ C.O. Marjorie Fletcher sat on the observatory deck on the _Enterprise_, savoring hot toddies in the wee hours of the morning. Both officers remained silent, alone with their thoughts; both thinking the same thing. Weeks of gridwork observation in the asteroid fields had been tedious, tiring, and exasperating work. Fletcher, though more used to the necessary tedium of the gathering of scientific data, was also finding the time lying heavily on her hands.

Scotty had told her a great deal about the three missing officers who claimed his loyalty, the pattern of their mutual friendship gradually but clearly etched in the stories he wove of their recently completed mission.

Five years was a long time.

The last ten weeks seemed longer, however. Weeks of meticulous observation of Orion trading routes, regular and irregular; trading habits on nearby colonies; intercepted communications from passing ships, marked or otherwise. The crews of both ships had performed admirably, often interchanging shifts to exchange information and relieve boredom. New friendships (and not a few romances) had sprung up as a result of the close contact.

But Scott was becoming more and more uneasy. Surely somewhere in this search they would run across the transponder signals from Spock and McCoy. Even if they were dead, the transponder signals still would have worked. A phaser blast on high would eliminate the gadgets, but the engineer thought it best not to dwell on that thought.

"You've let it get cold, Montgomery." Fletcher nodded toward Scott's tumbler.

"That I have, lass." He set down his unfinished drink and looked out at the starfield slowly moving beyond the observation window. "I never really liked rum, anyway."

Fletcher set her own tumbler down and leaned toward Scott, watching him intently. "Maybe. But that's not the only reason you forgot to drink it."

Scotty looked up into her questioning eyes and smiled. This Margie-girl had a handle on him, for certain. Yes, they had been working closely together for nearly three months, going over details of Starfleet orders, outlining search and observation tactics, drilling rescue plans again and again. But the chief engineer son learned this young captain had tremendous insight and intuition – saw that she knew her crew and commanded their admiration and respect – observed her expertise not only as C.O. but as a scientist. This Margie-lass, as he had grown to think of her, was a top-flight officer, and a remarkable human being. If their age differences weren't so great. . .

Scott snorted. Two May/September relationships in a lifetime were enough, thank you. He had no intention of attempting another one. It was disconcerting, though, to have this girl-captain admire and respect him so frankly, seeing there wasn't a drop of romance in her friendship for him.

She was smiling now, no doubt wondering if he had heard her last remark. He smiled back.

"No, it's not the only thing. I'm worried about the Jim-lad, Spock and McCoy. I think we shoulda found 'em by now."

Fletcher got up from her seat and moved to the observation window, her arms crossed. After a pause, she turned to look at the engineer, chewing her lip thoughtfully. "Do you believe in hunches, Scotty?" she asked.

The hairs on his neck stood up suddenly and he gave her a sharp look. "I do indeed, girl. What are you thinking?"

Fletcher continued to abuse her lip. Finally she uncrossed her arms and walked back to her chair, sitting on the edge. "Let's just say I've got a feeling, okay? We're getting close to something; I mean, look at the coded communications we've picked up from the asteroid – the ones going to that unidentified Orion ship – they've increased a hundredfold. But not once in our watch have we observed ay coming and going from the asteroid. That's unlike any slave camp I've ever heard of, yet that ship hangs around like a moth drawn to a flame." She stood up. "I don't know about you, but I'm putting my crew on alert."

"Make that two crews, Captain," Scotty agreed, as they hurriedly left the observation deck for their respective bridges.

ooOOoo

"Attacking a compound officer! For a Vulcan, that was inordinately stupid!" Garal cuffed Spock across the face, drawing a green trickle from the corner of his mouth. The Vulcan sat unbound in a chair in Garal's office, McCoy – also unrestrained – next to him. Beside the doctor was a conscious but blank Faal, staring into the distance, unaware of what was going on around him.

"Then there's you," Garal turned his attention to Bones. "You had every privilege, without having to pay the price. Perhaps you would rather render full measure now. . ." He caressed McCoy's face; when the doctor recoiled Garal grabbed him by the throat, squeezing slowly. "I could kill you now, _doctor_, if I wanted. Ganezh or no Ganezh." Garal saw the human was on the verge of blacking out and relaxed his grip. When McCoy opened his eyes again he threw him back into his seat, wiping his hands disgustedly on his shirt. "No guard would have you anyway, filth-monger, soiling yourself on disease, having to be scoured like a privy-pot before you can touch one of us."

Garal drew himself up importantly, making sure all his officers were looking at him. "Let it be known that this man is no longer our medic," he announced. "His protected status is also hereby revoked." He turned back to McCoy and smiled at him maliciously. "Understood?"

The officers nodded. "Understood, Commander," one of them answered.

"Pass the word," Garal said, dismissing a guard at the door. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"You defended Faal," Garal continued, looking at McCoy and Spock with suspicion. "That, along with other information I've gathered over months of observation, gives me cause to suspect you are connected with him in some way. My officer on Beta Gamma II knew what he was talking about when he told me about you. Nasim's instincts served him well."

Garal paced the room, deep in thought. The prisoners _had_ to be connected. The Feds had sent them to find Faal, who was evidently as important to them as to Ganezh, important enough to send two more of their own to get him back. Their Starfleet was known for providing agents on missions for the Federation, and he was in agreement with Nasim that they were probably Starfleet personnel. Perhaps even Faal was Starfleet. The three had witnessed the atrocities which took place in the compound, the senseless waste of good slave material. If they should get work back to their superiors their space navies could wipe him and his small band of compound personnel off the face of the asteroid, or the asteroid itself for that matter. It was, after all, unclaimed soil, and he understood their prime directive well enough. The Feds had every excuse to invade the compound, especially now that the threat of the alien Ganezh was so obviously removed.

He looked at the three men sitting before him. They wouldn't be the first Feds he had killed; Ganezh's leash had been long, and every Orion principle had been tossed aside to suit the alien's whims. Orbiting in the last remaining Orion ship above, the captain Rriendal's clandestine scans and inquiries had confirmed Garal's suspicions that Ganezh was gone – had _been_ gone for some time – departed for another helpless galaxy no doubt. No matter whether he was gone or not, however, Garal was through with this place and his own slavery. One day soon he would give Rriendal the long-awaited signal for evacuation, and in just one asteroid day cycle, once they had transported aboard all aboard the ship, the energy field surrounding the compound would be shut down; the prisoners would die instantly – no witnesses, no messy details.

Meanwhile, these three needed to be made an example of. For his men's sake; for his own authority's sake. He would see to the matter personally.

"Put them in the keep," he barked, dismissing them all with a wave of his hand. He did not bother to watch as the guards escorted them from the room.

To him, they were already dead.

ooOOoo

"Mr. Scott, the _Aurelan_ is hailing us. Captain Fletcher requests permission to come aboard."

"Certainly. Give the captain my compliments and have the transporter room stand by. I'll meet her when she beams aboard," said Scotty, excitement broadening his brogue. "Mr. Sulu, you have the con."

As the lift carried the Scotsman away from the bridge, Chekov and Uhura exchanged knowing glances with Sulu, who left his station to an ensign and took the captain's chair.

"I was wondering just how much longer we were going to have to wait," Chekov remarked.

"With Mr. Scott at the helm, I don't believe it would have been too much longer, whether Captain Fletcher confirmed our scans or not," Sulu replied. "Now that we've moved in close enough to pick up the transponder signals I think Mr. Scott could power the _Enterprise_'s engines with pure will!"

"It's that Scottish fire of his," said Uhura, masking a grin. "Makes a man impulsive sometimes."

ooOOoo

"Things are going to deteriorate real fast here if we don't do something."

"There is nothing more we _can_ do at present. I suggest you try to be patient."

Spock and McCoy stood side-by-side in a makeshift box measuring roughly one by two and half meters. McCoy's head brushed the top and Spock had to stoop as they leaned against one of the longer walls, looking down at Faal, who lay on his back opposite them, his eyes open but unresponsive. This was no change since he had regained consciousness shortly after McCoy and Spock had attacked the guard.

McCoy's lower back hurt him, but he tried not to draw Spock's attention to it – the Vulcan was in no condition to take on yet another concern. "We'd better sit down, at least. The air's a little better here," he said, pointing to the vent slits located at the lower end of the two short walls. Along with these, another small opening at the top of the box provided the only ventilation for the enclosure. The sun's quick climb to the day's zenith was evident in the increasing heat in the box – even Spock had broken out in a light sweat.

The hours dragged by, marked by the circle of sunlight which came through the upper vent as it moved across the floor of the box and up a wall. The heat was intense, making the Terran men sweat heavily. They were given no water, and McCoy began to be concerned about dehydration. Spock, he noted, had slipped into a light, rapid breathing which resembled panting. This was frequently punctuated by deep, bronchial coughing, after which the Vulcan had some difficulty returning to the panting again.

The doctor's discomfort increased hourly as they sat in the confined space. Eventually he had to stand, despite the heat. Spock averted his eyes as McCoy relieved himself in a corner, but he could not help but notice the bloodstains that left their mark upon the wall. Bones, feeling more embarrassment than was warranted, sat back down and wiped the sweat from his face. The Vulcan still watched him.

"I'm okay; bruised kidney, that's all."

Spock did not reply, but Bones was under his scrutiny from that point on. The doctor found it comforting.

Still they continued to sit, not talking, listening to the prisoners assemble for the night meal, the lights out signal, the crunch of the guards' boots on gravel as they maintained their night vigil. With night came a respite from the heat, but all too soon they began to feel the creeping cold that seemed to seep through the metallic alloy encasing the box. Spock's cough grew worse with the increasing dampness, the walls of the keep becoming slick with condensed moisture. McCoy looked for a way to bring the Vulcan some relief.

"Come on, let's sit next to Jonn. We'll lend each other our body heat." Bones crawled over to Faal and lifted him to a sitting position, making room for Spock, but he remained sitting against the other wall. "Spock?"

"I – cannot." Spock looked away.

"What do you mean? Look here now, you're sick. Don't pull any of that Vulcan protocol, either. Just put your shields up, or whatever it is that you do, and. . ."

"I said I cannot!" Spock paused, lowering his voice. "I have told you. I cannot touch him." He looked at the unresponsive Faal, his dark eyes reflecting deep grief. "The link is severed, you see."

The doctor leaned across the small space, placing a hand on the Vulcan's arm. "You did what you had to do. I don't pretend to know what all happened last night, but it was evident you didn't want to break the link. I mean it, Spock!" he added, seeing Spock's incredulous look. "You had quite a conversation going, you know. I realized it was with Jim." He squeezed his friend's arm. "He fought you, didn't he? Told you to break the link?"

Spock took a deep breath. "He did."

"What would've happened if you hadn't?"

"Complete and utter butchery of one of our minds, perhaps both."

"Then you did the only logical. . ."

"Do_ not_ tell me I did the logical thing! Tell me anything but _that_!" Spock's eyes flamed violently and the doctor felt a sudden desire to get out of his reach. Ill or not, Spock could be formidable when provoked. The attack on the guard was a good case in point.

"All right, Spock, all right," he soothed. "You only did what. . ."

"I did _nothing_. I merely followed a course, a plan not of my own choosing. Logical or not, emotional or not – I simply do not know. But when I broke the link, however necessary it seemed, I abandoned Jim when he needed me the most."

McCoy sat silently. How well he knew the Vulcan – not surprising that Spock would feel he had been disloyal, unfaithful to a friend. "You know Jim would be the first to tell you he couldn't stand by and watch you sacrifice yourself," he said quietly. "I mean, what possible good could your hanging on have done in the end? Shared his shame, maybe?" Despite himself, irony crept into his voice. "I'm sure that would have made him feel so much better."

"Stop it, McCoy. Stop now, or. . ."

"Or what? You'll throw me up against a wall again?"

The smoldering eyes blinked, glanced a shocked look at the doctor. Spock took a deep breath. "My apologies. I know you are only trying to help."

"Without much success, unfortunately. Spock, please tell me what's wrong. I can't have you going off the deep end, too. First Jim, and Jonn, and now. . ." The physician's eyes crinkled with worry.

"You know there was always the tension of maintaining the link with Jim while circumventing Jonn's interference. I do not know whether it was my inability to maintain the link which caused its destruction or my fear of what might happen if it _were_ maintained. Either way it was ultimately self-preservation – even if it was for the purpose of trying to make reparation later. One could say that self-preservation in order to regroup is logical, but – it is also dispassionately selfish."

"Dispassionate? You think you were the only one who saw what was happening to Jim? I was there, too – you probably don't remember much, but when I held you last night, I saw Jim come alive through the link. But I also saw Jim's acceptance, the realization that it was a battle already lost." McCoy shifted position, hunkering down next to Spock. "There are a lot of what-ifs, for both of us. We'll simply have to sort them out later."

"And what of Jim? He wanders alone in the dark, lost in endless, empty spaces created by Jonn. What of him, Doctor?"

"I think you know. You've been waiting for the right time, haven't you?"

"Yes, but I may have waited too long. My concern is that Jonn will try to block me, to create a disturbance in order to prevent me from reaching Jim. We _cannot_ be interrupted once I have joined with the captain."

"What about right here?"

Spock paused, his interest piqued. "It will not be without risk. You will have to keep him from crying out or making any noise – it would certainly bring the guards if we made any disturbance during the night."

"Yes, but it's more likely no one will come for us tonight, either. Tomorrow could be a different story; we may be separated. The way Garal's acting now, he may ship us off somewhere, if he doesn't kill us. Either way, this may be Jim's only chance."

Spock nodded. _Now it comes_, he thought resolutely. It was unfortunate he was so weak; his natural shields had all but disintegrated now. Yet McCoy was right. This was Jim's last chance. Could he abandon him this time, when it meant certain death for his friend if he did? No – not even a consideration; logic entered into it not at all. It was simply something he had to do.

He moved over to Faal, who still sat where McCoy had left him. Bones moved to the other side, watching as Spock closed his eyes, steepling his fingers before his face in a prayer-like gesture. The shallow breathing slowed, deepened. McCoy could hear the rales deep in the man's lungs as he prepared for contact. "Tell me what to do," he said when Spock opened his eyes again.

"You must, at all costs, keep him absolutely quiet." Spock helped McCoy lay Faal down between them. There was no reaction from Jonn. "Use a piece of cloth, if necessary, to silence him; sit on him to keep him still if you must. You will not be interfering with what I do – only do not touch me."

McCoy licked his lips nervously. "Okay." He ripped a piece of cloth from his already torn tunic and folded it into a wad, holding it in his hand. "I'm ready."

Spock knelt at Jonn's head and placed both hands on either side of his face, adjusting the position of his fingers. Faal lay unmoving, but his eyes slowly closed. His breathing altered, matching that of the Vulcan.

"I am Spock. You are Jonn." Faal's eyes moved under the closed lids, but he did not respond.

"You are Jonn Faal."

_Spock found himself in a ravine, enclosed by mist, following an elusive figure just discernable in the murky fog. He caught a glimpse of Jonn's face before he ducked behind a rocky outcropping. It was closed, uncommunicative – dangerous. _

Spock repositioned himself, sitting cross-legged on the floor and drawing Faal's head into his lap. He delved deeper into the man's subconscious. Faal was not going to cooperate, at least not at first, so he must circumvent the alter-ego's defenses.

_The mist cleared a little and Spock looked down from a precipice onto a narrow trail below. Faal moved along it carefully, watching the boulders and crevices for ambush._

"Faal," he called.

McCoy felt Jonn's body tense.

_Faal looked up, yelled in defiance, and ran back along the trail which circled around the base of the cliff. Spock hurried to the other side of the ridge, where the ground dipped closer to the train. When Faal rounded the corner, Spock dropped on him like a cat._

_He found himself in the relentless grip of a desperate man._

ooOOoo

Mr. Scott entered the bridge, his face set and grim. He stood on the upper level, hands behind his back, and looked around at the crew. All eyes were on him as he made this announcement: "You've all been waitin' to see if we're goin' to do any more than nursemaid the _Aurelan_. Well, you may soon wish that's all we _did_ do." He cleared his throat. "Doctor McCoy's and Captain Spock's transponders are signallin' us loud and clear from the asteroid. That same asteroid has been observed to be visited regularly by an unnamed ship which loosely matches eyewitness descriptions of Orion vessels – that one you see there." He pointed to the viewscreen. "That ship has been connected with a number of disappearances of Federation citizens as well as the attack on the Rigelian science vessel."

Pausing, Scotty saw the question in Uhura's eyes and answered her before she could speak. "No other transponder signal has been detected, lass. We don't even know if Captain Kirk had one on him. But since Mr. Spock and the doctor _are_ there. . ." He halted abruptly, weighing his words carefully before continuing. "Starfleet has ordered science vessels to investigate any and all unusual activity by alleged Orions. We have determined that if this asteroid _is_ a slave colony, it is an unprofitable one, since no slaves are being exported for market, and none are coming in, either. This is totally counter to Orion culture. It's what Captain Fletcher and I call 'unusual'. It would seem to indicate a society that's been tampered with. And since there's overwhelming evidence that Federation citizens are being held against their will, and since the asteroid belt is in unclaimed territory, I have made the determination that the Prime Directive is inapplicable in this case.

"You, as on-duty officers and crew of the _Enterprise_, though following the orders of your C.O., may be held accountable to Starfleet should my decision go awry. Captain Fletcher, who backs me in this, is informing her crew of their own possible accountability. Anyone who wishes to log his or her official objections may do so now." He glanced at the nearby yeoman who stood ready with his compboard to log the complaints.

There were none.

Scott looked down at his toes, the formal attitude exchanging places with one of reservation and deep concern. "We don't know what we'll find. I'm still under orders not to attack unless we first come under fire, and only to protect the _Aurelan_. She's our ace; if we weren't the nursemaid, we'd be hundreds of parsecs from here, probably.

"In any event, watch your P's and Q's. Retaliatory action by _voice command only_, understand, helm?"

"Aye, sir," said Sulu, Chekov echoing him solemnly.

Scotty nodded and took his seat in the captain's chair. He ordered Uhura to contact the _Aurelan_ and affirm course coordinates for assuming orbit around the large asteroid. The new course was soon laid in by Chekov and Sulu's hand poised over the impulse power controls, his eyes on the acting captain.

"Do what you do best, Mr. Sulu; I'm tired of draggin' our behinds out here."

"Aye, aye, sir," Sulu answered loudly, and demonstrated his affirmation with a sling-shot launch that catapulted them with stomach-jarring effect past the _Aurelan_. But Sulu made no apologies to the bridge crew nor to his C.O.

None were wanted anyway.

ooOOoo

_Spock was unable to maneuver. Finding his arms pinned to his sides, he countered with vicious kicks to Faal's shins and insteps, to no avail. Faal was driven, his terror flinging sensations like mere pain far way. The air slowly driven from his lungs, Spock felt his heart laboring and heard the pulse pounding in his ears._

McCoy watched Spock hesitate, his fingers slipping against Faal's face. Intuitively, the doctor knew the Vulcan was in trouble, but there wasn't a thing he could do. He couldn't even touch him. . .

_Desperate to free himself, Spock rolled his eyes back in his head, feigning unconsciousness, and collapsed against Faal, throwing the shorter man off-balance. He felt the man's grip loosen as Spock's weight knocked the breath out of him. Pivoting, he rolled out of Faal's arms and up into a crouch, waiting for Faal's next move._

Spock weakened or rallied, Faal's body responding in the same way. So far Jonn had not cried out or made any movement which needed restraint, and McCoy was, not for the first time, feeling left out. _Typical_, he thought, reflecting on his uselessness since coming to the compound. Once he could have been of help; once he had a close friendship with this man who lay before him, had even known his feelings and emotions through the dreams. But since coming here. . .

Bones straightened, understanding dawning on his ashen features. Since coming here, he had done the very thing he had accused Spock of doing – fallen into the way of things, living out his life day by day as if he expected it to be this way forever. He had abandoned all hope; he had abandoned Spock and himself – and Jim Kirk. McCoy looked back at Spock, who seemed poised for something, waiting. The link was broken, that was true, but was the emotional connection still there? He grabbed Faal's clenched fists in his own hands and closed his eyes.

_Spock watched Faal as he scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. The man glanced around him, searching for a place to run; Spock knew he could ill-afford to waste his small reserve of strength chasing Faal down again. He had to be confronted, and now._

"_Faal, you must listen to me."_

_Faal shook his head vehemently, looking very much like a trapped animal. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. Spock took a step closer._

"_Do you know who you really are?" he ventured, holding his hands out in a non-threatening gesture. "Do you know where you belong?"_

_Jonn shook his head slowly. This was too familiar – too much like Ganezh, toying with him, playing word games with him – trying to trick him into revealing the Hidden One, into revealing his secrets, the heart and essence of his being. Jonn backed away until he found himself against the cliff wall. There was no escape, but he would not allow himself to fall prey to Ganezh's tricks again. . ._

McCoy held the gag ready, alerted by the moans coming from Faal, but so far they were little more than a whisper. Still he tried to reach out to Kirk, though he didn't really know how. He began to think of things in the dreams, letting his mind play them back exactly as he had experienced them, all the while watching Spock and Faal. Soon he was reliving the episode in his quarters, when he had looked into the mirror and seen Kirk. At the same time he was on the other side of that mirror, looking back – and _recognizing_ – the Chief Surgeon of the _Enterprise_.

_Bones!_

The clenched fists McCoy held in his hands relaxed, the fingers finding the doctor's own, clasping hem tightly. _Bones – help. . ._

Trembling with excitement and newborn fear, McCoy reached for Kirk. He couldn't see him, but he could _sense_ him. And by God, he was holding his hands!! He began to bring up memories of the past mission, their first meeting, shore leaves, quiet drinks in sickbay, banter on the bridge, all the while calling Kirk to share in the memories with him and draw strength from them. The captain's grip tightened painfully, but McCoy wouldn't have let Kirk go now for the world, not even if he crushed every bone in his fingers.

_Spock hesitated, sure that if he advanced another step Faal would bolt or attack him again. Either way, the Vulcan knew it was a losing proposition. But there was another reason for his hesitation: another presence. Its unshielded personality, though weak, was definitely making its imprint on Spock's mind. It would not do to be ambushed by another figment of Faal's dementia. But the personality seemed un-antagonistic. It displayed rather a tentative curiosity, a reserved searching, like a child reaching toward adulthood while still holding its parent's hand. That curiosity, presaging an insatiable wanderlust – Spock recognized it now, and turned toward it. There, just within view, was the gold tunic. . ._

"_Jim!"_

_Faal recoiled at the Vulcan's voice, darting a glance in the direction of Spock's gaze. There was instant recognition. He blinked hard, as if clearing his mind. "You," he hissed. "You're going to get us both killed; you need to stay hidden – I'm the Protector. . ."_

McCoy was amazed. Faal was talking quietly, for the first time since the Ripper, but the words were bitter, tortured. Spock began to speak, too, and McCoy was once again the spectator as the scene played out.

"_Jim," Spock repeated and moved toward Kirk, surprised to see him take a step back, much as Faal had done._

"_You must go back," Faal continued, ignoring Spock and focusing on Kirk, walking toward him, his fear forgotten now in the overwhelming urge to protect this familiar stranger. "You're in danger if you reveal yourself. I'm in danger if I allow it."_

"_I can't go back," said Kirk._

McCoy looked at Faal sharply. That was _Jim's_ voice!

"_Faal," Spock tried again, "you were created by James Kirk. He brought you into being as an alter-personality _for a time_. As with all seasonal things, this too must come to an end."_

"_So now I must simply cease to exist?" Faal asked, not breaking his gaze at Kirk. "My purpose is to protect this Hidden One, this Kirk. If I cease to exist, I cease to protect. If he's no longer protected, he'll also cease to exist. My death is his death."_

"_No," said Kirk, moving toward Faal. "You won't cease to exist. You and I are part of each other, but you've been existing alone, as I have from you. We should join now: your experiences to mine, mine to yours. Faal and Kirk, born of one entity, must rejoin to complete that entity. That's how you must protect me, and how you are to survive."_

"He is right, Faal," McCoy heard Spock say. "If Kirk survives, Faal survives. But not separate, not apart. You must join, become one again. Now, before it is too late."

_Faal looked over his shoulder at Spock, uncertainty replacing much of the fear. "His memories are already mine. I am who he made me. His personality was too strong to remain totally hidden from me, though I was able to keep him from Ganezh. But not all my memories are his. Jonn Faal's memories are of small ships, capture, torture, famine, sickness – the Mind-Ripper. To become one with me, he. . ." He turned back to Kirk. "You'll have to remember all of that. It's what must happen. . ."_

_Spock sensed the change in Faal, a relaxing of his mind, an acceptance of the logic of joining his person with Kirk's. Truly Jim's personality had been enmeshed in this man. Spock honored Faal in his own right, and would not like to see him destroyed. He looked to Kirk, waiting for the captain's characteristic acceptance of common sense. But he was not prepared for the look he found in Jim's eyes._

McCoy tensed as he suddenly experienced another dream-like sequence which was new to him, yet he recognized it immediately. It was the brief time Kirk had emerged to fight Garal and the Orion guards – but the dream was sketchy, fragmented. And there was no memory of the actual mind-probe. Kirk had no memory of the Ripper at all!

"I'm – not sure," Kirk murmured, and McCoy understood. The reason Jim had created Jonn's persona in the first place was because he knew the risks of being subjected to a mind-probe device of some kind – an experience that, should it happen, would be the third time he had undergone such torture.

"_I'm sure," Faal answered. "I'm part of you, remember? Do you think if I've survived that you won't?" He leaned toward Kirk, a wry smile on his face. "We're entrepreneurs, remember?"_

_Kirk sighed shakily, and glanced at Spock._

McCoy felt Kirk's hands shaking, and he squeezed them reassuringly.

_Faal took a step closer to Kirk, almost touching him. "Well?"_

_Kirk nodded slowly; he opened his arms to Faal, who embraced him._

Spock, his fingers still locked onto Faal's psi centers, was overwhelmed with the joined minds as they coalesced. Memory vistas flashed in his consciousness at alarming speed, so fast that he could not consciously comprehend them. There were vague sensations of the euphoria of mind Disciplines, feelings of deep sorrow for friends left behind forever, agonies of searing physical and mental pain; then there were emotions upon emotions brought on by memories of privation, filth, brutality and hunger: anger, grief, terror and hatred; friendship, protectiveness, vehemence – all spiraled around and through him in a vortex of time and space, then slowing, slowing, until at the very last - was the Mind-Ripper.

And there it stopped. There it centered. The blurred frenzy of meshed memory slowed to an agonizing crawl as the last memory locked itself into place.

_Spock, though now from a distance, could still see Kirk and Faal holding one another. Slowly, Fall stepped into Kirk, as if each cell of his body slid beside the coinciding cell of his creator. For a long moment both their faces grimaced with suffering. . ._

_Then there was only one – and he wore a gold shirt._

ooOOoo

"Mr. Scott, there's some unusual activity going on between the Orion ship and the asteroid," came the voice of the third shift helmsman. "Everything was quiet down there, but now ship's sensors detect a great deal of activity within the compound itself."

Scotty struggled awake, pulling on his tunic as he answered the summons. "I'm comin', Mr. Ellis. You just keep monitorin' those transponder signals and alert the transporter room to stay locked on to their coordinates, ready to beam at my command."

"Aye, sir." Ellis nodded to the ensign manning the science station and she winked in reply. No need to tell Dean to monitor Spock's and McCoy's transponders. She had watched the signals as if they were diamonds strung from a string, just waiting to be pulled in.

A few minutes later the bridge doors slid open to admit the engineer as he strode to the communication console. "Harris, contact the _Aurelan_. I want Fletcher wide awake and ready when we. . ."

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted Harris, amusement in her eyes, "but Captain Fletcher has already hailed us. I told her you were on the way up. She's standing by."

Scotty smiled to himself, please that the _Aurelan_ crew was worthy of their captain. Science vessel, starship – not much difference, really, with the right person in the center seat.

"Give her my compliments, Ensign," he said, moving to the vacated conn, "and ask her – no, I'll ask her myself."

Harris punched a key and Fletcher appeared on the viewscreen. She looked alert, her uniform un-rumpled and fresh. Scotty tugged at his own uniform, which had suffered the insult of lying balled up at the foot of his bed until just a few minutes ago.

"You look like you could use a good cup of strong, hot tea, Mr. Scott."

Scott made a half-smile. "I was about to ask you if you'd had yours, but from the looks of you I'd say yes."

"I could pretend, Mr. Scott, but the bland truth is that I've taken to this shift the last few nights. Had an inkling that if the Orions were going to try something, they'd try it just before dawn. Looks like I was lucky." She smiled a small self-deprecating smile of her own.

_Aye, you're lucky, lass_, he thought. Lucky like another captain he knew. Fletcher was a rare breed, he could see that. There were many good C.O.'s with competent records, but then there were a few – a very few – brilliant ones, with knife-edged instinct. Fletcher showed great promise, as long as she didn't' let it go to her head. And there didn't seem to be too much risk of that.

"Well, I'm glad you're awake," was all he said. "Are you still monitoring the transponder signals?"

"Yes, and we're prepared to move when you are, Mr. Scott."

"Very well. We'll be in touch. Keep your eyes open. Scott out."

ooOOoo

McCoy felt Kirk's hands relax in his own and released them at last. He took the unused gag and wiped tears away from Kirk's temples. Spock's face was tear-stained, too, but McCoy did not think the Vulcan would appreciate his dabbing at them with a dirty piece of rag. He noticed Spock had taken his fingers from Kirk's face, knowing intuitively that he had succeeded in what he had set out to do. But he would not be completely satisfied until he had looked into Kirk's eyes with his own, heard his friend address him as 'Bones'.

Kirk remained unconscious, however – or asleep. He looked all right. . .

There were sudden noises in the compound. Doors slamming, prisoners yelling. McCoy could hear Garal's voice shouting order as he approached the keep with a contingent of guards.

Spock was on his hands and knees, looking out the small vent in the side wall.

"What's going on?"

The Vulcan motioned for him to be quiet and McCoy listened to Garal's harsh, guttural voice echoing over the compound. He didn't understand Orion, but he had picked up enough of the language to recognize _g'lel-asht_: 'intruder'.

Spock stood hastily and motioned for McCoy to help him pick up Kirk and support him between them. "Garal is coming for us."

"Why now?" McCoy whispered, adrenaline pumping. Whatever happened, he had already made up his mind to go down fighting. Anything was better than being separated from his friends again.

"I would say something has disturbed him," Spock answered, taking a better grip on Jim's limp body. "Enough to rouse him at such an unlikely hour."

The lock on the keep rattled and the door was jerked open. The men were blinded by the glare of a light, but Garal's voice was easily recognizable, though choked with rage.

"Give me that!" he yelled, grabbing the light from a guard's hand, and motioned them back. Garal lowered the light enough for McCoy to see the weapon in his other hand, pointed at them. "Begin evacuation procedures immediately," he directed at the guards. "Atmospheric shutdown in fifteen minutes." As they ran off to execute their commander's orders, Garal stepped forward and grabbed Spock by the arm. "You've been waiting for the _Phederatii_ to rescue you in a blaze of Starfleet glory. Well, they are here, but you will be dead before they can send down their rescue party. Outside!"

The _Enterprise_! McCoy looked at Spock, whose features were flat with resignation. He was thinking the same thing: the ship was in orbit up there, _so close_ – but there would be no escape this time. Garal would see to that.

As they moved out of the keep, dragging Kirk between them, McCoy tensed, preparing to fling himself on the muzzle of Garal's weapon; then he felt the first tingling sensations of dematerialization. Moments later they were caught away in a transporter beam.

ooOOoo

Scotty stood in the transporter room with five security men, phasers drawn.

"I've locked onto two other persons, Mr. Scott," advised the transporter technician at the controls. "They were too close to exclude from the beam." Scotty nodded and motioned to the security detail.

As the rematerialization began, it was soon evident that one of the four people was armed and pointing his weapon at the other three. At a signal from the Scotsman, the security detail stunned the Orion before he had a chance to squeeze off a shot.

But as the field cleared and the transporter shut down, no one was looking at the downed Orion. All eyes were locked on the three remaining men who, though standing, looked as if they wouldn't be much longer. Scotty had Kyle signal sickbay and ordered Security to remove the Orion, not wanting anyone else to see the condition the rescued officers were in. It was impossible not to stare; the men were so changed physically.

Spock, who supported Kirk on one side, stumbled and would have fallen if Scott had not moved to help him, encouraging him to sit on the step of the platform. Without a word, McCoy sat down too, both men lowering the unconscious Kirk between them. Slowly, the doctor looked at the engineer, his eyes widening.

"Scotty?"

"Aye, it's me. Welcome back, Doctor."

McCoy's eyes wavered from the Scotsman's face, glancing at the control board, the closed doors. "It's all so – clean."

Scotty's breath caught in his throat and he felt tears at the back of his eyes, but he fought them away.

_God, they look like the walking dead. . ._

"Are there any other Federation prisoners on that asteroid?"

Spock nodded, but did not reply. McCoy grabbed Scott by the arm. "The atmospheric shield – they're going to turn it off. Everyone left down there will die if you don't. . ."

The comlink whistled. "Mr. Scott," Sulu's voice sliced through the quiet that had settled over the transporter room. "The Orion ship is powering up, sir. Scanners indicate their shuttlecraft is boarding the last of the Orion personnel off the asteroid. We're prepared to give chase on your command."

"Strictly against Starfleet orders, lad," Scott replied. "Hold your horses and listen to me. Scan the asteroid for life forms and have the cargo bay transporter operators sweep the entire area and beam up anythin' they find. Have security standing by just in case. And hurry, man!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Uhura, contact the _Aurelan_ and advise them of our rescue attempts. Ask them to send any medical personnel they have over; we're going' to need 'em. Then send a communiqué to Starfleet, advising 'em we have located the captain, the doctor and Mr. Spock."

The transporter room doors opened as Uhura acknowledged, admitting M'Benga, Chapel, and three orderlies with antigrav stretchers. McCoy, who had slipped into a stupor, was vaguely aware of people around him, handling him gently, urging him to let go of Kick. But he couldn't do that – couldn't let Jim out of his sight now, when he had come so close to losing him. He began to struggle with the orderly, but in the end, his strength gave out; he simply had nothing left.

With a heavy sigh, he collapsed into oblivion.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

_I can't believe I'm getting two chapters up in a day. When you're on a roll. . . Actually, I'm not working today and could think of no better employment. Enjoy! W_

Chapter Nine 

"I'm glad we found your captain, Mr. Scott, and your two friends," said Fletcher as she and the engineer stood alone in the _Aurelan's _ transporter room.

"Aye, I can see that. I wish you could've had a chance to see 'em, meet the captain. . ."

"Now, we won't to into that again, will we, Montgomery? Judging by the condition of some of the prisoners we took on board the _Aurelan_, I can well guess what your friends have been through. Healing takes time."

"I'm glad you understand, and I'm grateful for your support when I asked Starfleet to let us keep them on the _Enterprise_ while we finish our training mission. I didn't think they would let us push back the refit, but they did – with you backing me up."

"It wasn't because of anything a green C.O. like me had to say about it. They're just covering their tracks."

The Scotsman nodded. "They've played us all, that's a fact. But now that they know we've figured 'em out, I doubt they'll give us much trouble."

"At least for now," Fletcher responded wryly.

"You comprehend far beyond your years, lass," he rejoined, pointing his finger at her and allowing himself a small smile.

"Well," she smiled back, everything having been said. She was going to miss this brilliant but kind man.

"Well," he echoed. "Goodbye, then. Keep your sails up."

"And you. Goodbye, Scotty." She saw him nod and wave as the transporter caught him away, waving her own farewell. Smoothing her uniform and straightening her shoulders, she disappeared through the automatic doors.

ooOOoo

Scotty stretched in his easy chair, the one luxury he allowed himself other than his Scottish whiskey, taking his first break in over twenty-four hours. He was achingly tired, but years of experience taught him there would be no sleep for him yet – not until he had sorted some things out.

The last three and half weeks had been hectic, tense. The rescued prisoners were in abominable condition and the combined efforts of _Aurelan_ and _Enterprise_ sickbays were not enough to save some of them. Their wasted bodies and tortured psyches were harsh testimony to the lives they had led in the compound.

No other Orions were with the rescued prisoners; still, Security had their hands full with a few recalcitrants who found themselves in the unnerving setting of a Federation starship. Shuttlebay was doubly guarded; no one wanted to answer to Mr. Scott if one of the shuttles was commandeered by unauthorized personnel. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the former gang-members were dropped off at the nearest Starbase, along with a few other prisoners whose health permitted departure for parts unknown. The greatest relief for Scotty, however, was turning Garal over to the authorities at the Starbase. He faced certain extradition to his home planet, where his dealings with the alien entity spoke ill for him. Somehow, based on prior experience, the Scotsman didn't think the Orion would live long.

The _Aurelan_, bearing the worst cases, had departed long ago for Theta II, the finest medical facility this side of Vulcan; now that the remaining prisoners were delivered, things were returning to normal – as normal as they could be, anyway.

Scotty leaned over and pulled off his boots, wiggling his toes luxuriously. He poured himself a drink, raising his glass to the successful completion of an extended training mission. He had commended the crew, officers, and trainees to Starfleet, all of them having performed their duties admirably, not the least of which was the destruction of the mind device the alien had left behind on the asteroid. Now they were headed for Terra – Starfleet – most of them facing reassignment. The _Enterprise_ was scheduled for a long overdue refit plus, he had just learned, the addition of new engines; Scotty had already been apprised of his new assignment as chief engineer on that project, a position which would take up the next year or two of his life. He couldn't think of anything that would give him more pleasure.

Ship's grapevine rumored that Jim Kirk had been promoted to admiral and Mr. Spock offered the captaincy of the refitted _Enterprise_, but Scotty had his doubts about those assignments. McCoy, Spock and Kirk had been isolated in sickbay for nearly a month. Understandable, considering what terrible shape they were in. But his few visits had been uncomfortable ones. Despite M'Benga's urgings, the three former prisoners didn't care much for visitors – they obviously wanted to be left alone. It was probably to be expected, what with their being too sick to have visitors at first, and it was evident their spirits had been badly mauled. He had seen people give up before – he saw his friends very near that now. When he approached M'Benga with his concerns, the doctor reassured him that they would eventually rally; that they had buried deep those things which would have to come out when the time was right. Still, he couldn't help but worry just how long that might take.

ooOOoo

"Doctor, there's someone to see you."

"Christine, I told you I don't feel up to having a visitor today." McCoy didn't turn his head to look at her, apparently engrossed in reading something on his bedside monitor.

Spock motioned for Christine to leave them and she keyed the doors closed for privacy.

"It is not a visitor, Dr. McCoy, but a fellow inmate." He stood quietly, his bludgeoned shields in place, at least for now.

McCoy, propped on pillows, watched the first officer move slowly to a chair and sit. Spock was painfully thin; a tight, unproductive cough still plagued him.

"Who let you out of bed?" grumbled McCoy.

Spock ignored the barb and adjusted he sickbay wrapper more closely around him. He had not yet adjusted o the regulated atmosphere of the ship. Although it was much drier and better heated than the compound, it still didn't compare to his own well-heated quarters. It was his turn to look at the doctor who, except for brief times the nurse would let them communicate via comlink, he had not seen since returning to the _Enterprise_ weeks ago. The doctor seemed smaller, shrunken, like a child. He would have to guard himself carefully; memories of his protectiveness toward his friend while in the compound threatened to undermine his newly-built shields. "Dr. M'Benga tells me you are better."

"Yes," drawled the doctor, so far on safe ground. "They had to remove the kidney, finally – to much damage to repair. I'm in regeneration therapy now." He shrugged. "The rest is just vitamins and lots of sleep." He pulled at his pillows, one of which was pinned beneath his own weight, frustrated at his inability to move it himself. Spock rose to help him, alarmed at the physician's own weakness after nearly a month of rest.

McCoy's blue eyes flashed a mixture of gratefulness and embarrassment, his own recent memories at odds with his attempts at a semblance of their old relationship. "Thanks."

Spock, struggling to master a strange stinging sensation in his eyes, eased McCoy up and rearranged the pillows behind him. "I have also found it difficult adjusting to my lack of strength," he ventured. "I, too, can take things for granted."

They exchanged a long look before McCoy motioned to the vacated chair. "Pull that thing over here where I can see you. I'm too comfortable now to move."

Spock obeyed and was soon seated near McCoy. The silence grew between them as they tried not to notice each other's infirmities.

"Doctor, have you seen the captain. . ."

"Have you talked to Jim. . ."

Both men stopped, the words that tumbled over each other evidence of mutual concern for their friend.

McCoy sighed, looking down at his folded hands. "No, Spock, not really. We've spoken once or twice on the comlink." He glanced up at the Vulcan. "He's all – shut up inside. I really didn't know what to say to him."

"It was the same in my case. I could not understand my reticence to communicate with him; it is illogical. Dr. M'Benga says there is a human tendency to suppress unpleasant memories. . ."

"Hm. Well, then that would indicate that even you. . ."

"I am aware of what it indicates, Doctor, which brings me to the matter I have come to discuss."

McCoy lay back into his pillows, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Spock to continue.

"I talked to him face to face, two days ago. It was – a somewhat one-sided conversation."

"You did? What'd you talk about?"

"I – attempted to apologize for my behavior on the asteroid." Spock hesitated, the range of emotions he still felt ample proof that the course he had laid for himself must be followed. That realization gave him the strength to continue. "Perhaps I was also looking for a logical explanation for my behavior while we were held captive. . ."

"Spock, there _was_ a logical explanation! You were exhausted, starving, sick and dying! Perfectly logical to me!" Spock closed his eyes, and McCoy bit off what he was about to say next and waited for the Vulcan to continue. The man was probably having as much trouble expressing himself as any of them lately. "What did he say?" he prompted, gently.

"He replied just as you would expect him to. He said, 'Forget it, Spock, it wasn't your fault.' Then he changed the subject. He will not discuss it with me."

"Won't discuss what happened, you mean?"

"Not only to him, but the whole undercover assignment, his orders, his promotion. He had difficulty looking at me."

"Well, you're not exactly back to your previous beauty – give him time."

"His trouble has nothing to do with my appearance – not overtly." He tilted his head, as if puzzling it out. "I believe that he feels responsible."

"He – he what? Well, that's nuts."

"You know as well as I that he had always assumed responsibility for anything that happens to those under his command."

"We weren't under his command."

"He knows that intellectually; but what he feels is something else again."

"Well, he can't go on like that, Spock. It'll affect his qualifications for Starfleet, it'll ruin his chances to. . ."

"Doctor, I did _not_ come here to discuss Jim's problems."

McCoy rose from his pillows, leaning on an elbow, searching the Vulcan's dark eyes. He let his breath out, having tired suddenly of this conversation. Everything was changing; they had reached the pinnacle and had begun a racing descent down the other side. Nothing would stop it now. A creeping sense of dread crept over him.

When Spock spoke again, his voice was cooler, more clipped. "You of all people know I must come to terms with my behavior on the asteroid. All my life I have followed the Vulcan way, ignoring my human side, perhaps making allowances for it. But no amount of discipline prevented what happened. I wanted to – save myself." The coldness fell away again, his eyes haunted as they sought McCoy's. "Many times I wanted to strike back for the mistreatment to which we and the others were subjected. I wanted to kill the guard who struck you; I would have derived great pleasure in doing so." He looked down at his clenched hands before he again locked gazes with the physician. "But what I wanted most of all was to escape the feelings I had for you and Jim. I have always had a stanch regard for both of you, and accepted it. But I never experienced such powerful, such – fierce – emotions as I did in the colony."

"I think you've experienced them, Spock. Maybe not quite so openly."

"Not with the _intensity_, Doctor. An intensity which overrode everything else in my life. It became the focus of every day, every minute we spent there. I could only think of you and Jim, and live with the hope that you thought the same of me. You were the only tangible reality left to me in that place."

"Only for a little while, Spock, only for a little while. You were a lifeline to Jim and me, too – and Faal, toward the end. I don't think I could have gone on if I didn't have you waiting for me by those stupid crates. You know, Spock, I came to think of those pieces of ratty wood as _home_? But it wasn't the crates, Spock. It was who waited for me there." The doctor's voice faltered and he couldn't go on. So many times he had wanted to talk, and now that he had the chance, he felt like an idiot.

Spock waited quietly while the human regained control. He must explain his plans to his friend, knowing that the initiation of those plans could sever their friendship forever; however, it was a path he must take, for sanity's sake.

McCoy lay back upon his pillows again. Past arguments, disagreements, and misunderstandings paled in he light of what he sensed Spock was about to do. Spock was his friend; dammit, he _loved_ this man, and he was going to lose him. . .

"I have tendered my resignation, effective immediately. The _Enterprise_ is due to rendezvous with a Federation diplomatic shuttle en route to Vulcan within three weeks. I plan to be on in."

"What will you do on Vulcan? Not politics, surely." McCoy's eyes squinted with disbelief.

"No." The Vulcan's own eyes held a glint of sad humor. "You may rest assured I have no aspirations to follow in my father's footsteps. I – mean to study – with the Masters of Gol."

McCoy, not understanding, waited impatiently for Spock to go on, fidgeting with the bedcovers.

"I will pursue a mind discipline which will leave me devoid of all emotion. It is a total cleansing, but a difficult path to follow. It involves – giving up all past associations, plans, possessions – relationships."

McCoy's eyes widened. "You mean you can't associate with Sarek and Amanda?"

"That is essentially correct."

"Your own _parents_?"

"_Any_ family members." Spock's gaze held McCoy's own. The doctor realized Spock's last statement included his family on the _Enterprise_, as well.

"How long is this self-isolation?"

"As long as the masters determine."

McCoy wondered if forever would be long enough. "You're sure your goal is worth giving up so much?"

"I am not sure of anything," Spock answered, wearily. "I must seek what has been lost."

"What have you lost, Spock?"

"If I knew that, Doctor McCoy, the search would be over before it began."

ooOOoo

Jim Kirk lay awake on the bed in sickbay, staring into the dark. Sleep, at its best, had been fitful since the rescue, and he often found himself awake in the middle of the night, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat and the hum of the medical monitor over his head. But tonight, just like last night and two nights before that, he listened to the echoes of his last talk with Spock. Their words rang harsh in the blackness around him, making him wince with their starkness.

He had wanted to see Spock – McCoy too, but had not been able to bring himself to do it, even after visiting restrictions had been lifted. _Just one more day_, he had told himself, and each new day he would tell himself the same thing. He knew he should question his own motives, knew that he could not. His mind was all too aware of the unhealthy withdrawal in which he found himself, but his heart would not allow him to ask 'why'.

Then Spock had sent a message, a request that he visit him. In that respect it was still the same old Spock, respecting the captain's privacy after their ordeal – or was it? Nothing had ever prevented the Vulcan from visiting him before, whether he recuperated in sickbay or his own quarters. Did he have the same reticence Kirk did? Did McCoy, for that matter? None of them had made much more than overtures to see each other during their convalescence – no more than brief exchanges over the comlink – a symptom of their psychological wounds? Yet Spock had asked to see him.

Kirk hated to leave his room, though physically he had been up to it – hated the eyes that were on him, albeit discretely – hated knowing they were wondering why he had taken so long to visit Spock and McCoy. After all, he was their former captain, wasn't he – he had a duty to check on their well-being, didn't he?

It was with these heavy thoughts hanging on him that he had stepped into Spock's cubicle, finding him sitting in a chair by the monitor bed, wrapped in thermal blankets. The Vulcan had looked at him for a moment before inviting him to sit. Kirk waited for his friend to speak, unable to ignore the unnatural pallor of Spock's skin, the spells of shivering, and the harsh, shallow breathing.

The silence had grown between them – not the comfortable silence they had often enjoyed in the past as they relaxed in each other's company – but a weighted, charged silence. Kirk could not endure it for long.

"You wanted to see me, Spock?"

What was the matter with him? A simple 'how are you' was the least his friend deserved.

The Vulcan shifted in his chair, making no attempt to straighten his slouch, and cleared his throat. Jim then began to fully comprehend how dangerously ill Spock must have been in the compound, far worse than Faal had realized. Even now Spock had no business being out of bed. For the first time in weeks, Jim Kirk's worries were for someone else besides himself.

"Spock, you look like hell," he quipped, trying at levity. Anything to assuage the bitterness he tasted.

"I have been told that before, Captain, and by someone more qualified," said Spock. Kirk looked for signs of the Vulcan's own brand of humor, but there were none. The first officer's features were emotionless and cold, and he shivered again. Glancing at the bed, Jim saw another blanket which he soon had wrapped around Spock's shoulders, swaddling him in its comfort. But Kirk could find no comfort in the shrunken appearance the many blankets gave his friend. Sighing, he sat down again and leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"You wanted to see me, Spock, and I'm here."

"Yes."

Another long silence. But Kirk kept his peace. Spock wouldn't have called him if he didn't have something to say. He forced himself to look into those black-brown eyes, feeling no telepathic touch, no stirring in his mind indicating contact with his friend. There was nothing. Spock had withdrawn every bit as much as he.

"Captain, about the prisoner compound. . ."

"No need to bring that up now, Mr. Spock," Kirk had cut him off. He had raised a few shields of his own and had no intention of letting anyone, not even Spock, tear them down now.

"I wish to apologize, Captain." Spock had tried again, but Kirk had waved it aside, telling him not to worry about it. It had been easy enough to give the advice; hard to take it himself.

Spock had hesitated, then shrugged resignedly, a minute movement of his shoulders. "Captain, I am tendering my resignation to Starfleet Command. As my former commanding officer – and my friend – I felt you should be informed."

Kirk had just managed to keep his jaw from dropping. He had expected almost anything from the Vulcan at this point, but not this. He swallowed and leaned back in his chair, straightening his shoulders with effort. "Explain."

"I – believe it is a logical move for me, Captain."

The old side-step. Kirk had seen it so many times it might as well have bells on it. Over their years of service together he had become quite adept at getting around it, realizing that often the Vulcan couched his emotions in logic – seeming to require no assistance, but in reality desperately needing it. Kirk had read the reports, the testimonies of McCoy and Spock as well as his own, and had been struck with how much his two friends had endured in his 'absence', far more than Faal had ever realized, though his protector had suspected enough near the end – enough to try to help them. His men, his officers – his _friends_ – had suffered atrocities far beyond the call of duty, because of their loyalty to him. They had come to rescue him and had instead become prisoners themselves, to the point of death. He was ultimately responsible – for his actions, for accepting Nogura's manipulation, for his friends' humiliation and suffering. The responsibility was his, and his alone.

Somehow, this time, he could not shoulder it, though he accepted it. This time, there was the nagging thought that if he could be so manipulated by Nogura, so subdued by another persona, and so brutally used. . .

He shook his head, refusing to think about that. That was stored away, hidden, _buried_, as deeply as he could. He couldn't think about it now; he was. . .

He was _afraid_.

Despite the opening Spock had left for Kirk to draw the Vulcan out, help him as he used to, to express his feelings and frustrations, Kirk had held back. Thinking back on it now, Kirk knew it wouldn't have taken much effort on his part, surely. But he had let it go, allowed the Vulcan to remain behind that carefully reconstructed shell which passed poorly for non-emotionalism. He had failed Spock, as surely as he had failed him on the asteroid. He had accepted Spock's resignation, wished him well, and fled the room.

He had not seen Spock since then, nor communicated with him.

"Coward." Biting his lip against some residual pain, Kirk sat up in the bed and switched on the library monitor. Since the abortive talk with Spock he had attempted to read the information about victims of mind-altering devices M'Benga had recommended to him, but had been unable to bring himself to look at it. Those other times he had suffered such intrusions into his mind. . .

Anyway, what were psychological placebos when stacked up against the obvious facts? Had he submitted to one too many mind-melds, undergone one too many mind-manipulating machines, suffered one too many nightmares as a result of the demands of his career? In the five-year mission, he had been able to recover from, or at least put behind him, trauma to his psyche – his _spirit_. Had this breakdown been nothing more than an impending toll of the bell? Or had cynicism come with experience – had he lost his youthful exuberance which had buoyed him up for so long?

What _had_ happened to him? M'Benga talked of mental rape – suggested it had not been the first time. Said he had to face his own fallibility: read the tape. His hand shook as he held the damned thing in his hand. Disgusted, he slammed it down upon the table. He shook with emotions he wouldn't allow himself to recognize, aware only of the deep humiliation he felt at his inability to face his problems – or anyone else's – head-on.

Room lights began to come up. An artificial dawn was upon the _Enterprise_ as regular shift began a new day. Resignedly, he picked up the medical library tape and inserted it, only to snatch it out again, groaning in frustration. Again he picked it up, but held the tape in his hand for a long time, weighing it. With an expletive he forced himself to call up the information. He began to read:

". . .shows that such individuals, much like rape victims, experience classic symptoms of self-rejection or depression, followed by guilt and self-blame. Angry outbursts and other vented emotions can be expected and dealt with as normal, gradual steps to psychological healing; however, victims who fail to evince these symptoms are to be watched carefully. To affect recovery, the human mind must deal with the known avenues to 'order its universe'. A minimum or lack of these types of emotional responses is blatant warning to the counselor in these cases. . ."

"Jim."

Kirk started at the unexpected greeting and clumsily switched off the monitor, his face reddening with embarrassment as he turned to face McCoy. It was disconcerting to find himself so intimidated by the doctor, giving an edge to his voice that was unintended.

"What are you doing here?"

"Who, me? I live here, remember? Permanent resident."

Jim pushed the monitor away and swung his legs over the other side of the bed, facing McCoy, who leaned heavily on a cane. Kirk's eyebrows drew together at the sight of it, and at the frail man who depended upon it.

McCoy followed Jim's glance to the stick in his hand. "On loan from Scotty," he said, tapping the antique on the floor. "He's got two or three hanging around his quarters, so I borrowed one."

Kirk's face did not clear with McCoy's attempts at brevity. "It makes you look like an old man," he rasped, shocked at his own words. A lot of such nasty, low thoughts had been swirling in his head lately, but he hardly expected to be flinging such invective at his friend.

"Bones," he said, the hardness melting away, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." He saw that the words had hurt the physician, hurt him like the words of guards and prisoners had hurt him, a misery worse than the physical abuse he had suffered. McCoy's face paled and he sagged where he stood.

Jim jumped off the bed and caught his friend before his legs completely gave way and led him to a chair, pulling up another one in front of him. The doctor didn't rally right away, his hands cold in Jim's grip. "Talk to me – do you want me to call the nurse?" he asked, chafing McCoy's fingers worriedly.

The doctor shook his head and began to take on a little color. "I'm all right. It's just that this is the first time I've been up and around on my own. Haven't gotten my sea legs, yet." He leaned back in the chair, gently withdrawing his hands from Kirk's. "Unlike you, I suppose," he said caustically. "I see you've been up awhile."

The captain had put on about ten pounds and, though still underweight, was beginning to look more like the Jim Kirk McCoy had known. With hair cuts, beard inhibitors, and lots of soap and water (they had all insisted they did _not_ want sonic showers), anyone was bound to look more like himself. But there _was_ something about him. No doubt Spock's observations had alerted him, but it was unmistakable that Jim wasn't the old Jim anymore. M'Benga had told McCoy the captain refused to speak of anything that happened on the asteroid, corroborating Spock's story, and that so far Kirk had displayed none of the expected symptoms of a victim recovering from mind- mauling.

Kirk knew McCoy was sizing him up. He looked away, finding it as difficult to look into those blue eyes as they had been Spock's. Since joining with Faal, he had all the memories intact, memories which haunted him all too vividly in his dreams, jerking him from sleep shouting and fighting with the empty air around him. He saw Spock and McCoy through Faal's eyes as they weakened and starved, suffered deprivation and torture, all because of their friendship for him. He saw through Nogura's scheme as he had never seen through it before; yet he had held himself in check because, as a Starfleet officer, he was following orders.

"You gonna talk to me about it or not? I can't sit here forever, Jim."

"Talk?" Kirk crossed his arms, wary.

"Yeah. You know, verbal communication, conversation, things like that."

"I've got nothing to say," Kirk blurted, his face grim.

"I don't mean just you. Did you know Spock's leaving Starfleet?"

"He told me," Kirk said bluntly, his jaw set.

McCoy watched him compassionately. "Jim," he said softly, "it's time you talked to someone."

Jim got up and began to pace. "You think so? And I suppose I've got to talk to _you._ Look, I don't need this right now. . ."

"Shut up, dammit – just shut up, will you? When someone's been through what you have, they need to talk, get it out. . ."

"You don't know what you're asking." Kirk stopped pacing and leaned over his chair, his hands gripping the back with white-knuckled strength.

"I'm not asking you, Jim. I'm _telling_ you – as your doctor and your friend. You're not fooling M'Benga or me – you certainly didn't fool Spock. He needed to talk, too, and you froze him out when he needed you. . ."

"Don't you _ever_ say that again!" Kirk yelled, his body trembling.

"Why? Because it's true? Because you may have to accept the responsibility for his leaving Starfleet? Didn't expect to have to shoulder _that_ one, did you?" McCoy leaned forward, wondering just how much self-control Kirk possessed. "Oh, you're perfectly willing to beat yourself up for making the decision to go undercover, for our capture and mistreatment, even your own humiliation! Suits you to wear a martyr complex, doesn't it?"

"Bones. . ."

"Now Spock's leaving us. We'll probably never see him again."

"That's enough."

"He's going, and you're letting your career fall down in shambles around you. . ."

"I said that's _enough_!" Kirk flung the chair away, sending it crashing against the bed. "What do you want from me, a confession? All right, I confess! I ran into this mission because Nogura had me beat, because I knew our days of service together were over. I knew that commanding a starship would never be the same again. I confess to wandering around in a mind discipline I had no business entering, waking up to find myself controlled by Faal and his fear; having memories of your suffering forced on me!" Kirk's color was high as he gestured at the ceiling. "Ever wake _up_ to a bad dream, Bones? When _you're _having a nightmare, you can escape it by waking up! But not me – hell, no! I'm _already_ awake!"

McCoy sat hunched in his chair, feeling small and vulnerable in the face of Kirk's tirade. But he was smiling. Kirk wasn't just angry – he was mad as hell.

"Yes, I'd say you _are_ awake – now. You know, running away from something doesn't take away its pain. The only way is to face it. You know that; it just took you a little while to remember it."

"Facing it doesn't take away the pain either," Kirk said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"I know it doesn't." McCoy pointed his cane to the upended chair. "Please. Sit down, Jim."

Kirk picked up the overturned chair and placed it next to the doctor. Sitting down, he took the cane from his friend's hands. "I can't believe I said what I did," he murmured, rubbing his hands over the smooth surface of Scotty's family heirloom. "Bones, I. . ."

"You already apologized for that. It was just something that came out – I happened to be the one it landed on, that's al. It was churning inside you; still is. But you can see now that you have to get it out. Bottle it up inside and you'll kill yourself."

McCoy saw the tears in Kirk's eyes; saw him wipe them away as they spilled over. He had never seen his friend cry openly before, and he had never been more happy to witness it. There would be more times like this before the total healing could take place, but this was the beginning – of many things.

"Jim, there's something I have to tell you."

Kirk looked at the doctor, surprised to see a weight of sadness on his friend's mobile features.

"I'm going to require a long recuperation. Seems my constitution needs building up or some nonsense. I've got a lot of my own thinking to do, as well."

"You're going to take a leave of absence? You've got enough time accumulated, and you deserve the rest. Take your time off, and when you come back. . ."

"I'm not coming back, Jim."

Kirk felt like he had been struck. When Spock had told him of his resignation he had withdrawn from it, but now McCoy's news lay like a knot in his stomach. _McCoy gone – and Spock! _ He couldn't fathom it – he could only sit there as his heart filled with a deep, unutterable grief. "When?" he finally managed to whisper.

"When we dock," McCoy answered. "I signed on for this training mission to help find you. I never committed to any five-year mission after that."

"She'll go out again, you know that," Kirk said, staring at the far wall.

"Yes, I know. Scotty's told me all about the planned refit. She's to get new engines, all the latest technology. A worthy ship to command."

"A worthy ship, Bones. Before I left San Francisco, I told Nogura I wanted first chance at her when my mission was over."

"No doubt he couldn't turn you down."

"He had no _choice_, given the circumstances," Kirk said wryly, handing the cane back to McCoy. "But I'm not going to ask for her now."

McCoy swallowed his reply, fiddling with the cane until his friend continued.

"I'm going to make an appointment with Heihachiro Nogura, and when I'm alone with him I'm going to tell him what I think of his backhanded politics and blatant misuse of Starfleet personnel. And then when he busts me down to ensign for my impertinence I'm going to put my fist into his perfect white teeth just before they throw me into the brig and throw away the key!"

McCoy grinned widely. "You just play that scenario over a few times before we get to space dock, Jim-boy, and when you see how increasingly ridiculous it looks you'll hone your say down to something a little more civilized. I don't think he'll deny you much."

Kirk smiled back, his envisioned confrontation already appearing a bit melodramatic in the telling. "I don't think I'm ready to take her back, really. Still too many things to work out."

"How long will it take to refit her?"

"With the new engines, eighteen months to two years, best guess."

"Shoot, you should be well and ready to take her by then."

"I can't wait until then. And if I ask for her now it will be against my own good judgement. You've seen the requirements, Doctor; you've certainly brought them to my attention enough during the last mission."

"The admiral's not going to hold your current condition against you; he knows you've been brought back from Hell itself."

"I'm talking about my mental state, Bones. In case you haven't noticed, it's not in top form right now."

"Anyone who was imprisoned on that rock for any length of time is going through the same things are. We all have to find the road back, in our own way."

"And I _will_, I'm _counting_ on it. Meanwhile, I have a nice, cushy desk-job waiting for me until I _can_ get her back."

"You'll hate it."

Kirk only smiled.

"Will you report in right away?"

"No. Nogura interrupted my leave in July. I intend to take up where I left off."

"In the mountains? You're in no condition to go climbing around in the wilderness in winter! You'll catch your death of. . ." McCoy stopped, reminding himself that Jim Kirk would do exactly what he had made up his mind to do.

"I'll go slow, Bones. Call it unfinished business."

"Okay. I just don't know who's gonna take care of you when I'm. . ." McCoy cleared his throat. The realization was beginning to sink in that he would not be serving with this impulsive officer or his somber first officer again, that the _Enterprise_ and her crew would soon be nothing more than a memory. Weakness dragged at him as he struggled to stand, looking very tired.

Jim stood too, placing a hand on the doctor's arm. "_I'll_ take care of me – I promise."

"Jim, I – you know I don't like goodbyes, I – well, that's not important. Look, we've got almost three weeks before Spock leaves, and we have some unfinished business to tend to."

Kirk looked at the doctor for a long moment, then smiled. "You've learned diplomacy, Doctor. That's just a nice way of saying I've been an ass to you and Spock and it's about time I fixed it. Am I close?"

McCoy grinned a slow, wide grin. "You could say that."

Kirk held out his hand and McCoy extended his. But when Jim's hand closed around the doctor's he pulled the man into his arms, the cane clattering to the floor.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten 

_Personal Log, Montgomery Scott, Acting Captain of _U.S.S. Enterprise.

_We're about a week away from space dock, Terra. All is well, though everyone is looking forward to getting off the ship for awhile. Had a pleasant surprise on the bridge today. _Admiral_ Kirk came up for a bit, talking to the officers and crew, looking at the ship's log. He seemed more relaxed than he's been in a long time, more at ease. But when I asked him to take the center seat, he refused. There was a tightness about him for a moment, then he smiled and the sun came out again._

_Dr. McCoy has already come up once or twice, but I'm still worried about him. He's not gaining weight like he should, and he seems a bit tired to me. I'm no doctor, but I've seen the process of recuperation often enough, and his is too slow to my liking._

_Mr. Spock has visited the bridge several times, usually to check the science computer and gather some information. We all know, of course, that this information could be obtained through his own computer in his quarters. Mr. Spock has improved the mind of the _Enterprise_ as much as engineering has improved on her soul. We all realize it's his way of saying he wanted to be near us – to let us know he's all right, and that he cares about us._

_I'm a bit worried about him, nevertheless. It's his manner – not cold, exactly, but unsure, much like in the early days of the mission, before we had gotten to know one another, as if he doesn't quite know his place anymore._

_Ah well, when we land lots of changes will take place for all of us._

ooOOoo

It was cool in the arboretum, the season set for early autumn. Even in the controlled environment of the ship, the plants of many worlds needed seasonal changes. The vibrant greens, blues and yellows of various botanical specimens were subtly altered and an earthy smell permeated the damp air. Quiet ruled, the inhabitant insects silent in the cooler climate.

Near the exact center of the large room, made intimate by the vines, stems and trunks of the man-made forest, was a low bench shaded by a Terran wisteria vine. The blooms had long since faded but there were a few leaves remaining on the meandering stem. They rustled faintly in a gentle breeze.

James Kirk pushed his hair out of his face only to have the breeze blow it back in his eyes again. But he was intent on the man who sat inches from him on the same bench, his dark head lowered and slender hands clasped between his knees.

Over two weeks had passed since Kirk's talk with McCoy. The episode had left him exhausted; all the emotions he had been suppressing since his rejoining with Faal had surfaced then, and he had lost control. But it was, as McCoy had foreseen, a beginning for him. All the rest of that day Jim had felt drained, emotionless, and that night he had slept the first dreamless sleep since leaving the compound. When he awoke the next morning he felt refreshed, almost as if none of it had happened. Then the harsh memories crashed in on him, and he again experienced the anger and frustration of a man who has lost control over his circumstances – and of himself.

There was no quick cure for this, realized. For any of them. Spock and McCoy must, in many ways, be going through the same black hole he was. So much of what he had experienced they had experienced too. Why had they become so estranged? Was it his fault? Had he so completely removed himself from reality that he had removed himself from them, too? Even as he asked the question he knew the answer. Somehow, he had to try to close the gap again, despite the plans of Spock and McCoy.

Since his talk with Bones, Jim had moved back to his cabin, acquired a uniform of rank, and made his presence known around the ship (though he refused to take command, preferring Scotty in that capacity). He had visited the rec rooms a few times and was seen in the gym once or twice, but only to observe. Nevertheless the old crew had taken heart in seeing him again. That alone made his voyage back into the real world worth it, though he still found it difficult. McCoy had been right about his having to feel his way back. It wasn't easy, and just where he was going was uncertain.

Now he was sitting next to Spock, biting his lip in consternation as he wondered how he would try to talk to his silent friend. He had failed him before, when the Vulcan was open and vulnerable, had run away when Spock was locked in the grip of indecision. He sighed audibly. Bones was right again – he had driven Spock over the edge, forced him to make a decision that, if it had been delayed long enough, might never had been made. He raised his eyes from the Vulcan's hands and found his friend gazing at him, his features composed, almost blank.

Kirk found the tears threatening him again. Damned emotions! They had pestered him many times over the past weeks, at untimely, irrational moments, his efforts to crush them drawing quizzical looks from those around him. He steadied himself, knowing a show of emotion would not be good just now.

"Spock."

"Admiral."

So cool, so matter of fact. Spock unsettled him, a sensation he had not experienced since he had first met the man when he took command of the _Enterprise_ years ago.

He reminded himself that Spock's psyche had undergone a shredding much like his own, that neither of them were as sure of their standing with each other as they had before the mission. He also reminded himself that there was _nothing_ that could undermine a friendship forged through years of service, of understanding, of the mutual regard and respect he, Spock and McCoy had for each other.

To put it plainly, the love that the three men shared was insurmountable, or so he had always believed, though he had never quite put it in those terms. _Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres_. The ancient words learned in his Midwest childhood surfaced in his memory, and his chest ached with an intense attachment to his friend that he could not suppress.

"Spock," he began again, "I owe you an apology."

The familiar cant of the head, a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Indeed? I am not aware of any indiscretion on your part."

"I'm all too aware of them," Jim said wryly. "Look, there's no easy way to do this."

Spock withdrew, almost imperceptibly, but to Jim it seemed like miles. "There is no need. . ."

"I want you to know I wasn't in such bad shape back in sickbay that I wasn't aware of the pain you were suffering," Kirk began in a rush. "You and I had this system, you see."

Curiosity lit the bottomless eyes. "System?"

"You know. Cool, emotionless Vulcan debates with illogical, emotional human. I come up with all the arguments I can muster and you counter with logic. During the course of this debate you reveal to me your innermost thoughts and feelings without ever giving the slightest hint that you are experiencing them. I understand you perfectly and your dignity is maintained."

Spock jutted his jaw forward, eyebrows coming down in a near-frown. "Jim, that is totally illogical."

"That's the beauty of it."

The Vulcan science officer folded his arms across his chest. "Perhaps if you would come to the point?"

At that moment Jim longed for pockets to jam his hands into. Lacking those, he bolted from the bench and began to pace in the fading light. He could not help but notice Spock's growing discomfort in the encroaching coolness and promised himself a quick finish to all this. It was time to put all pretense aside anyway.

"I didn't play the game last time, Spock. I didn't use the system." He held up a hand to silence Spock's reply. "When you asked me to see you in your room in sickbay, you wanted to talk about what happened on this mission. You gave me an ample opening, but. . ." He stopped pacing and stopped in front of the Vulcan. "I was scared, Spock." He made a sound of disgust. "No, I was terrified. How could I have presumed to help you when I hadn't been able to face my own terrors? All I could think about was how we'd been used by Nogura and Starfleet, whether we'd been changed so much we would never be the same men again. I was right, too, we _had_ changed. At least I had. If you knew the terrible things I said to Bones. . ."

Spock stood up. "I am not unaware of the conversation that took place between you and the good doctor." He hesitated, then placed a hand on Jim's shoulder. "He assures me he was a random target."

Jim looked at the Vulcan intently. Was there a hint of humor there, or was it only because he wanted so badly to see it? He felt a squeeze on his shoulder. No, it was there. Hope surged in him. "Will you reconsider your resignation?"

Spock shook his head, sinking down upon the bench again. "I think not. Believe me when I say I am grateful for your hasty retreat the night I told you about my resignation. It enabled me to see in you what was indubitably happening to me." He made himself meet the hazel eyes. "So you see, you did use the system after all, though you did not realize it."

Jim felt a sudden weakness in his legs and was glad for the tree trunk behind him. He leaned against it, willing his shaking knees to hold him up. "You won't change your mind?"

"I will not."

"McCoy tells me you'll be giving everything up – everyone. For this _kohlinar_ thing." Kirk's face darkened. "Another mind discipline." He felt suddenly cold. "You do this willingly, Spock, knowing what you must give up?"

"It is entirely voluntary, Jim, but not easy. You would not think I have made this decision lightly?"

Spock's tone was an earnest plea for Jim to understand he was not deserting his friends, but seeking something else. Jim didn't really understand, wasn't sure he would ever understand, but he knew Spock would never do anything to purposely hurt their friendship. He would simply have to let him find his own answers.

He smiled at Spock, who looked very childlike at the moment, and fell back upon an old comrade: humor. "Who, me?" I would never think such a thing." He sobered. "Just promise me this – if you don't find what you're looking for with the masters, you'll get out. You'll look for your answers somewhere else."

"Agreed."

Dark had truly fallen in the arboretum. Without another spoken word, the two men walked slowly along the darkened paths toward the doors. Jim found himself reaching out to Spock in his mind, but there was no contact – only a sense of loss. Only time would tell if their previous _t'hy-la_ link would ever be re-established. Time, and patience.

"Come on, Spock. Let's go find Bones and head to my quarters for a nightcap."

There still was a lot they had to talk about. Whether they would get it all said before Spock left the ship was debatable.

But it was a start.

_Last Chapter – Epilogue – will be up soon! -W_


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

A lowering sun shone cold-white in a February sky, turning bare branches into spider-web halos overhead. Water crystals grew with frozen symmetry among fallen leaves on the path, their fragile beauty crushed under his boots. The path was treacherous with ice, yet he made his way with little trouble.

Kirk's breath steamed around him in the still air as he gazed out over a precipice, the winter-blue sky spread out clean and pristine before him. It was cold, but he glowed with the heat of his walk. Dark came early in the mountains; he would have to hurry if he wanted to make camp by the waterfall. He checked the map again – a mile as the crow flies, but there was no flying across the precipice. Hitching up his pack, he set out again, pacing himself against a growing weariness.

The walk, generally accomplished in three days, had taken him nearly five. The toned, tanned man who had walked these mountains seven months ago was gone; this one was thinner, tired easier. He was more than ready to rest when he finally reached his destination.

The sun dipped below a low-lying cloud while Kirk made camp. He pulled his father's tent out of the pack, along with makings of a campfire. As shadows crept along the ridge, new flames licked at the deadwood he had gathered, casting shadows of their own in the encroaching darkness. Kirk walked over to the cliff, looking down at the waterfall which flowed down the side of the mountain. It fell a long way before smashing against the rocks below. Frozen spray lined the embankment like snow; the sounds of the distant fall and the sizzle of the fire shed their quiet noise on him like rain. A single sunbeam escaped the enveloping cloud, charging the frozen spray with fiery radiance – Kirk's breath caught in his throat.

Darkness drew in like a cloak, and he was forced to retreat to the campfire. As the flames died down, his eyes were drawn to the sky and the stars which hung there. But he made himself look away. He must accept the fact that he may never be out there again; he must make room for other, younger officers.

He snorted into his coffee, choked. Damn, but he had gotten maudlin. He was thirty-eight years old; hardly of retirement age yet. So he'd been through the wringer for awhile. Was it any worse than the cumulative effect of the five-year mission?

"Yes," he said to himself. For a moment he wondered if, had he known what he was to experience over these past months, he would have left the summer woods for the unknown. He shrugged unconsciously – perhaps he would never know.

But that was over. He had put it behind him, though the memories still came back to haunt him. Memories of Spock waiting for a word, a gesture, that would help him open up. Of McCoy's chiding him into a healing fury. Sometimes he dreamed of Jonn Faal, too, sensing his fear and dementia, yet his loyalty, too. There was no doubt that if Jim Kirk had been in complete control of his faculties during his imprisonment, he would never have survived life in the compound.

His eyes glinted wickedly. "Neither would Garal," he muttered, taking comfort from the words, though he knew they were empty.

Now he was talking to himself. A vivid image of his friend McCoy flashed into his thoughts, the memory bittersweet.

He kicked dirt over the glowing embers of the fire and was swallowed up in the waiting darkness. Standing still for a moment, he savored the experience, drinking in the sensations like water. It was dark, yes, but with no barriers to keep him in, no Garal to attack in the night. This darkness expanded, leapt beyond the mountains, reached out to the black sky above, their joining marked only by where the stars began. He was free here, free to start again, to heal and make plans.

And oh, did he have plans. Nogura got him promoted, got him the desk job. But he owed Kirk, owed him plenty, and when the time was right, he would get back the _Enterprise_. Somehow, some way, he'd get Spock and McCoy back, too.

He looked one last time at the stars before turning in for a much-needed sleep, confident now of his claim to them. His chest expanded with the intake of cold, clean air, and he raised his empty coffee cup in salute.

"Some day," he said.

_Weeping may remain for a night,  
__But joy comes in the morning._

The End

_I have always been a sucker for chronologies; I like knowing what everyone is doing when they are separated. The Appendices of __**Lord of the Rings**__ really did me in, though. It was like reading a story unto itself, and it clarified a few things for me, furthering my understanding of what Mr. Tolkien was describing. I'm certainly not Tolkien, but I have no qualms about borrowing from him! If you want to see the chronology for _Empty Spaces_, go to the next 'chapter'. Thanks for sticking with me – Westel_


	13. Chronology

Chapter Nine

Chronology

May 15:  
En route to Terra. Kirk, McCoy and Spock receive separate coded messages from Nogura with new assignments.

May 20:  
_Enterprise_ dry docks, Earth orbit, after successfully completing first five-year mission.

May 24:  
Kirk moves into new apartment; McCoy accompanies him.

May 26:  
Kirk announces plans for trip to Virginia mountains. Spock boards the _Intrepid_ for informal inspection.

May 27:  
Spock sends word that he will remain on board the _Intrepid_ for several weeks to assist in the sciences department.

May 30:  
Kirk leaves for Virginia.

June 1:  
Kirk begins mountain trip. Scheduled return date: July 15.

June 4:  
McCoy's dreams begin.

July 5:  
Kirk's premature cessation of mountain trip.

July 6:  
Kirk confers with Nogura. McCoy is called to Starfleet Command to 'discuss pending orders'. Kirk enters apartment while he is out. He packs and leaves for parts unknown.

July 8:  
Kirk arrives in fourth quadrant; buys a vehicle on Beta Gamma II. Nasim makes his report to Rriendal.

July 10:  
Kirk/Faal captured by Orions.

July 15:  
Ganezh leaves galaxy.

July 17:  
Faal sent to Cholanthis compound, sick and delirious. Tarn, a Tellarite, takes care of him.

July 22:  
Spock returns to San Francisco.

July 22-23:  
Faal, recovering from a self-inflicted wound, is first subjected to mind-ripper. McCoy collapses; Spock comes in contact with McCoy's dreams.

July 24:  
Spock and McCoy attempt and fail to speak to Nogura.

August 3:  
Garal attempts to molest Faal – Tarn interferes and is punished with the brain stun.

August 21:  
Spock assumes captaincy of the _Enterprise_; McCoy becomes his CMO.

August 25:  
_Enterprise_ begins training maneuvers.

Sept. 2:  
Spock receives order to go to fourth quadrant.

Sept. 4:  
Faal subjected to Mind-Ripper for second time and is punished for insubordination when he resists. McCoy experiences Faal's punishment in a dream.

Sept. 6:  
Spock contacts Kirk in the _forr t'al._

Sept. 10:  
_Enterprise_ makes rendezvous with _Aurelan_.

Sept. 10-11:  
Faal is attacked and tortured by Garal. Spock and McCoy fall prey to the torture through their links with Kirk.

Sept. 12:  
Spock receives 'orders' from Nogura.

Sept. 15:  
Spock and McCoy arrive on Beta Gamma II.

Sept. 17:  
_Enterprise_ and _Aurelan_ begin scanning the hundreds of asteroid belts surrounding the dwarf star in the fourth quadrant. Spock and McCoy are captured by Orions.

Sept. 18:  
Spock and McCoy are delivered to Cholanthis.

Sept. 26:  
McCoy begins diary. Scot divulges the Non-Al orders to Fletcher.

Oct. 6:  
Rriendal and Garal begin discussions concerning abandoning Cholanthis now that they are certain Ganezh will not return to the quadrant.

Oct. 18:  
All but a few of the Orion trade ships leave the fourth quadrant, disguising their actions by maneuvering among the asteroid fields.

Nov. 5:  
The _Meltahd_ on Orion moves in on the traitor-fiefdom. Most commit suicide before capture. Word goes out to remaining ships in the fourth quadrant that they are on their own.

Nov. 28-29:  
Only one Orion ship is left in the fourth quadrant. Garal, knowing his way off Cholanthis lies with Rriendal, must submit to Rriendal's demands before evacuation can take place. He blames Ganezh and his 'pets' and plans revenge upon Faal.

Nov. 30:  
Tarn dies in the chair of the Ripper.

Dec. 15:  
Scott and Fletcher, after scanning Rriendal's ship from a distance for over two weeks, decide to take matters into their own hands and move in closer, just out of range of the Orion ship's sensors. They, too, use the asteroid fields to hide.

Dec. 25:

Spock attempts _t'al-shaya_ on a guard. Spock, McCoy and Faal are placed in a confinement cell. The _Enterprise_ moves within range of the transponder signals and lock on to the compound's coordinates.

Dec. 26:  
Kirk and Faal are joined. _Enterprise_ moves in range. Rriendal picks them up on his scanners. Garal orders Cholanthis abandoned. Kirk, McCoy, Spock and Garal are beamed up. Garal is detained. _Enterprise_ beams up remaining prisoners minutes before the atmospheric perimeter is shut down. The Orion ship departs to places unknown.

Dec. 27:  
Landing parties scour the compound, gathering prisoners who had died prior to the rescue for later identification. No graves were found.

Dec. 29:  
_Aurelan_ departs with severely ill patients for Theta II.

Dec 30- Feb. 18:  
_Enterprise_ drops off other patients, recalcitrants, and Garal, and continues training mission as it pursues leisurely course toward Earth. McCoy, Spock and Kirk recuperate.

Feb. 13:  
Spock leaves the _Enterprise_ for Vulcan.

Feb. 18:  
_Enterprise_ arrives space dock, Terra.

Feb. 20:  
McCoy departs for Georgia – Atlanta Medical Center – for further surgery and recuperation.

Feb. 27:  
Kirk arrives at the waterfall in the Appalachians.

March 1:  
Scotty assumes captaincy of Engineering. Assignment: complete refit of the _Enterprise_.

March 15:  
Marjorie Fletcher, Captain of the _U.S.S. Aurelan_, resigns her position and assumes her new duties as first officer of the _U.S.S. Hood_.


End file.
